The Jarrow Lass

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Rose had never seen so many townsfolk turned out to demonstrate their solidarity for the new clinic and their admiration for the former rector who had done so much for them. Every trade and friendly society in the town was represented and the Fawcetts marched with the crowds to see mighty Charles Palmer lay the stone.

  ‘Can you see any sign of Canon Liddell?’ Rose asked William, straining on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the dignitaries.

  He shook his head. ‘They’re saying something about him now,’ William told her.

  Word spread back that the rector was travelling abroad for his health, and once again it saddened Rose to think of the warm-hearted couple in their solitary enforced exile. She wondered briefly where Alexander was now. In all likelihood they would never see the boy again either.

  Putting sad thoughts from her mind, she and her family followed the procession to the Recreation Ground for the speeches, and the children ran around in the sunshine.

  Her sisters lifted the babbling Kate from her pram and attempted to get her to walk, staggering along either side of her.

  ‘Let her alone,’ Rose chided, seeing the pain in the baby’s face as they dragged her forward. Kate began to whimper and protest.

  ‘She can’t walk proper, Mammy!’ Margaret cried in annoyance.

  ‘She’s still a baby, hinny,’ Rose defended.

  ‘Her foot’s funny,’ Elizabeth added, as they plonked Kate on the grass.

  Rose stared at the red-faced baby, holding up her arms to be carried. She saw with alarm how the child’s foot was turned in awkwardly. She had noticed her sitting like that before, but had convinced herself it would straighten in time, once she was on her feet and walking.

  William bent down swiftly and lifted Kate into his arms. ‘There’s nowt wrong with her foot,’ he declared, avoiding Rose’s look. ‘She’ll walk canny in her own time.’

  Rose knew how he doted on his youngest and would have nothing said against her. But from that moment, Rose knew there was something wrong with Kate’s limb. Deep in her heart she had known from birth that the child’s foot was damaged; it had never looked quite right. She suspected it was from the way the baby had been yanked from her womb, feet first, by the frantic efforts of Mrs McMullen to ensure both she and the baby survived.

  Over the months she watched her daughter develop and grow into a lively infant with a sunny nature and infectious giggle, but she was slow to walk and preferred to pull herself along sideways like a crab, her crooked foot tucked in behind her. They all felt protective towards the baby of the family. Her older sisters mothered her and William made more of a fuss over her than the others. Rose bristled at the slightest comment on Kate’s foot from other mothers, especially Mrs Fawcett.

  ‘She should have her leg put in callipers, that one,’ William’s mother advised, ‘straighten it out before it’s too late.’

  ‘She’s still a baby,’ Rose retorted, ‘and she’s not ganin’ to be put in any irons.’

  ‘She’ll be a cripple,’ Mrs Fawcett sniffed, ‘spoil her chances of getting work or a husband.’

  ‘She’s not a cripple!’ Rose cried, and snatched Kate from the woman’s critical inspection. ‘She’ll run as fast as the rest of them in time, you’ll see.’ And Rose determined there and then that she would.

  Nevertheless, Rose took the infant to the doctor, not wanting anything to mar Kate’s chances of getting on in the world. He advised against doing anything until she was older.

  ‘We don’t want her to undergo the surgeon’s knife so young. Wait and see. It might correct itself in time.’

  The year ended in terrific gales and storms, which carried on into the January of ‘84. Chimneypots were blown off and shop windows shattered; a brig broke from her moorings and was smashed up against the quay. A man at the ferry landing was blown into the river and drowned, while a woman and her two children were killed by the gable end of their house falling on top of them. It seemed an inauspicious start to the New Year and Rose shuddered at how swiftly and brutally fate could destroy a family’s security.

  But in the spring Margaret started school and Rose was filled with pride that they could afford to clothe their eldest in smart shoes and starched pinafore and send her off clutching a penny to the Catholic school. Elizabeth missed her playmate so much that soon she was tagging along with her to the school gates until the teacher relented and allowed her to sit in class with her older sister. Margaret revelled in this new world of slates and chalk, and came home chanting her spellings and tables.

  Rose enjoyed the few hours when she had Sarah and Kate to herself, and she took them to the park as often as possible, coaxing her youngest to walk and keep up with the inquisitive Sarah. She saw what an effort it was for the small girl, but Kate never complained and it surprised Rose how determined the easy-going Kate could be. In June came Race Week, when Tynesiders flocked to Newcastle’s Town Moor for the horse racing and Temperance Fair. After the scare of losing Margaret there as a small child, Rose had no wish to go back and William could not persuade her to change her mind.

  ‘The bairns would enjoy the side shows,’ he encouraged, ‘and we’ve got enough put by. Let’s spoil them a bit.’

  ‘You do plenty of that already,’ Rose replied, but with a smile that told him that she did not mind. ‘I’d rather take them to the seaside - the youngest two have never been.’

  William was easily persuaded. Rose was thankful that he would never be the kind of man who treated Race Week as an excuse to gamble and get drunk and spend their hard-earned savings. So instead they dressed up, took a picnic and the train to South Shields and had their picture taken in a studio. They spent an afternoon on the beach, splashing in the shallows and digging in the sand. They ate fresh winkles washed down with ginger beer and saw a clown performing along the pier. For the first time, Kate ran six paces along the sand, holding hands with Margaret and Elizabeth, before her weak foot buckled under her.

  Rose clapped in delight and William swung his dark-haired daughter high in the air and kissed her for being so clever. After that, they raced the girls, clutching Kate between them and lifting her off her feet every few steps.

  ‘See, you can fly, me bonny little nightingale!’ William cried, and the small child threw back her head and squealed with laughter.

  By the time they climbed on board the train back to Jarrow, they were all tired out, their cheeks ruddy from the sun and sea air, their toes gritty with the sand in their shoes.

  ‘Can we go again next week, Mammy?’ Margaret pleaded, while Elizabeth’s head already lolled sleepily on Rose’s shoulder.

  ‘Soon,’ was all she would promise, smiling across at William, who cradled the sleeping Sarah and Kate in his arms.

  Margaret turned her attention to her father. ‘Can we, Da? It’s canny at the seaside.’

  ‘We’ll gan again soon, like your mam says,’ he grinned.

  Rose thought how glowing with health he looked that evening as they jostled home on the train. He still looked so boyish, despite his moustache and the thinning of his fair hair at the temples under his respectable bowler hat. She felt stout in comparison, having never regained her slim waist since Kate was born. But the way he looked at her made her feel girlish and desirable. How lucky she was to have such a husband, she thought, drowsily content. At that moment she wanted nothing else in the world, for Rose believed she had it all.

  By the autumn, a slump in trade hit Tyneside, spreading hardship along the river and into the surrounding towns and villages. Relief funds were set up and soup kitchens opened once more to feed the hungry. Rose was thankful that through her careful housekeeping, they were able to live off the money saved during the past two years. She managed to scrape together enough to keep the girls going to school, for both she and William were determined that they should be educated. Christmas came, but there was little
entertainment or celebrating in the town and the girls had to make do with second-hand toys and less meat on the table.

  William tried to be optimistic with the dawning of 1885. In January, Palmer’s launched the three-masted schooner, the Surprise, the first built by the company for the Admiralty.

  ‘I may be on short time,’ he reasoned, ‘but there’s work ticking over.’

  There was a further launch in February and in June, the Dovenby Hall was completed, the largest sailing ship ever built at the Jarrow yard. Trade limped on, but there was an air of stagnation about the town and Rose grew used to seeing small shops boarding up their windows and removal carts piled with the belongings of those who could no longer afford to pay rent. They were just getting by on William’s reduced wages and by limiting themselves to meals of bread and tea rather than meat and milk.

  Then Rose’s general unease turned to fear when a smallpox epidemic broke out in the summer and the dilapidated fever hut on the edge of town that served as an isolation hospital filled up rapidly. When the cases of smallpox slackened, the hut was hastily disinfected and prepared for a new wave of typhoid cases. Illness plagued the town and the sombre sight of horse-drawn hearses rumbling down the streets became commonplace.

  Most alarming of all was an outbreak of infant diarrhoea that swept in with the hot weather and brought many deaths in its wake. Rose watched Kate like a hawk and when the child woke hot and feverish one afternoon, she went rushing for Dr Forbes.

  ‘Are you still feeding her yourself at all?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Rose blushed, ‘she likes the bottle - I keep it warm for her on the stove.’

  ‘You mustn’t do that!’ the doctor said sharply. ‘Germs can multiply in warm milk. Throw away the bottle, Rose, she’s old enough to drink from a cup. And steer clear of grocer’s milk till the hot weather is over. Give her boiled water that’s cooled off in the pantry. Keep her cool at night too.’

  Rose wanted to ask the doctor about Kate’s foot again, but she could see he was frantically busy and preoccupied with stemming the tide of disease around him. So she hurried home and followed his instructions, coaxing her daughter to sip the sterilised water. Kate was fretful and listless for a couple of days then, to Rose’s relief, suddenly perked up as if nothing had been the matter.

  Rose tried to protect her family by feeding them what she had and denying herself. Some days she would eat nothing until William returned at tea time. Whether he had work to go to or not, he stuck to the routine of going out and keeping himself occupied, doing odd jobs at the church or reading at the Mechanics’ Institute. But he noticed how the weight was dropping off her and insisted on sharing what she put on his plate.

  ‘We can’t have you going sick for lack of food,’ she cried at him anxiously. ‘You have to bring in a wage.’

  ‘And how will me and the bairns manage if you waste away?’ he pointed out. ‘Now get some food down you.’

  With autumn, the raging fevers abated. Luckily for the Fawcetts there was still work at the steel mills, if not in the yards. In November, a large gathering of businessmen met at Palmer’s steel works for a special ceremony of tapping a new steel furnace, which was done by Mrs Palmer. William brought home enough for them to celebrate Christmas, but Rose’s spirits were dampened by the obvious distress of so many around them. The unlucky ones had spent all their savings and pawned everything they owned to try to keep roofs over their families’ heads.

  Two skinny boys came knocking on Rose’s door begging for food on Christmas Eve. She hurriedly wrapped up a loaf of bread and a couple of apples and sent them on their way before her own inquisitive children could ask too many questions. She wanted to shield them as much as possible from the hardship and poverty of the outside world that lapped at their door.

  The year turned again and they prayed for better times. But the winter of ‘86 was unrelenting. In March, cold winds blew in from the east, bringing ferocious snowstorms that lasted for three days. The gales were arctic and the town disappeared in a white storm that kept people trapped indoors, as if Nature fought to take repossession of the polluted and despoiled land. Rose was too fearful to go out for food or fuel and kept the girls bundled up in bed together to keep warm. Margaret organised them into playing the Snow Queen, and Rose was thankful for the girl’s imagination in keeping her sisters occupied for hours on end. For two days, William struggled down as far as the end of the street before he was beaten back by the weather. He could hardly retrace his steps in the blinding icy blizzard. He stumbled over the frozen corpse of a nag that had slipped and been abandoned to the smothering snow.

  By the fourth day, when they had run out of supplies, the winds dropped and he dug his way out of the back door, emerging into a Siberian landscape of deep snowdrifts and sparkling icicles. He came home with a bag of coal, some stale bread and tinned fruit, which was all he could find at the grocer’s. Rose quickly got the fire going again, seeing he was frozen through from standing in line for food.

  ‘There’s nowt moving in the streets,’ he said between chattering teeth. ‘Some of the snow’s the height of a man. It’ll take days to clear.’

  The children clamoured to be out in it, but Rose would not let them for fear they disappeared under the suffocating blanket of snow. She worried about her father and Maggie marooned up the hill.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ William reassured, ‘they always have a store of food for the bad weather. I’ll go up and see them tomorrow if you like.’

  But the next day he was shaking and feverish, and Rose put him to bed. He lay listless, as if all the energy had been drained out of him in his battle against the snow. Rose tried to get him to eat, but he had no appetite and when she spoon-fed him like a child, he coughed the thin broth back up again.

  Rose kept the children out of the bedroom to give him rest, listening to his persistent cough from down below. After two days she found him struggling into his clothes, looking thin and wasted. A caller had been round shouting that the mill was open again.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’m ganin’ to work,’ he panted.

  ‘You haven’t the strength to walk across the room, let alone gan to work,’ Rose remonstrated. ‘Get back into bed!’

  ‘I need to work,’ he gasped, setting off a bout of coughing. ‘And I haven’t been round to Mam’s for a week - they might need some’at.’

  ‘Your father can take care of your mother for once,’ Rose retorted. ‘Your first duty is to us, William. You get yourself fit for work - you’re no use to me as an invalid.’

  When she saw his unhappy look, she was sorry for speaking to him so sharply, but seeing him in such a weak state made her frightened. If he was off work much longer, she would have to think about going out and finding work herself. Then who would look after the girls? she fretted.

  ‘I’ll go round and make sure your parents are managing,’ she relented, ‘if you promise to stay in bed and keep warm.’

  Later in the day, she popped the younger two daughters into bed with William and, wrapping up the older girls in as many warm clothes as she could find, set off for James Terrace. It took them over half an hour to wade through the blackened snow drifts and icy slush piled up at the side of the road. Delivery horses slithered around on the treacherous cobbles and Rose had to keep hauling the girls out of the snow when they took refuge from passing carts and horse-drawn trams.

  When they finally reached the Fawcetts’ house, Rose was exhausted and the children soaked and numb from the melted ice in their boots. There was no reply. Rose hammered harder, annoyed that she had trekked all the way over only to find them out. Why hadn’t they thought to come over and see if their precious William and his family were all right? she thought angrily. Mrs Fawcett had never forgiven her for persuading William to stand up to his mother and move out of the family home. She
could expect no help from her petty, spiteful mother-in-law.

  Margaret began to shout for her grandmother and stamp her feet in frustration.

  ‘It’s no good, we’ll have to go home,’ Rose sighed. ‘They’re not in.’

  But Elizabeth clambered on to the top step and poked her runny nose through the small brass letterbox. ‘Grandma! Grandpa Fawcett! It’s me and Margaret. Let us in, please!’

  ‘Haway, hinny.’ Rose pulled at her hand.

  ‘They’re in there, Mammy,’ Elizabeth insisted, stubbornly refusing to move.

  Margaret barged her sister out of the way, for a better look. ‘There’s someone coming,’ she announced.

  Just then the door opened a fraction and Mrs Fawcett peered out. Rose was struck by how old and forlorn she looked. ‘Who is it?’ she asked querulously.

  ‘It’s us, Grandma!’ the girls chorused.

  Rose saw the expression of confusion on the woman’s face. ‘Mrs Fawcett, it’s me - Rose. We’ve come to see if there’s anything you need fetchin’.’

  ‘No, not today, thank you,’ she replied as if speaking to a tradesman. Rose was perplexed.

  ‘Can we come in for a minute? The lasses are cold and we’ve walked all the way in the snow.’

  As Mrs Fawcett struggled to reply, the girls dashed in under her skirts. ‘Where’s Grandpa? Is he at work?’ Margaret asked. ‘Da’s not at work - he’s sick in bed.’

  ‘Look!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘He’s in the parlour. Grandpa!’ The children clattered into the cold parlour where their grandfather sat in his chair.

  As Rose followed them in, Mrs Fawcett said in a frightened voice, ‘He’s resting. You’re not to disturb him.’

  Halfway into the parlour Rose stopped in her tracks. She gasped in horror at what she saw. Mr Fawcett was colourless like marble, his mouth drooping open as if frozen in surprise, his eyes half open. She knew death when she saw it.

  ‘He’s cold, Grandma,’ Elizabeth said in concern, reaching him first. Margaret stopped still, sensing something was wrong.