‘I’m stopping at Lily’s the night.’
‘I’ll walk you there, then,’ Tommy persisted.
Catherine hesitated, but Lily intervened. ‘You can walk the pair of us. You in the middle, so we can keep an eye on you.’
Tommy walked them home and they chatted all the way, but Catherine slipped quickly inside before he could kiss her good night.
Lying in bed next to Lily that night she thought of Tommy and her pulse quickened. She was attracted to him and knew he liked her. But where would a kiss lead? She was terrified that she might be overwhelmed by passion like Kate, and not be able to control herself. Catherine flushed all over. She should not even be thinking of such things. Once, at confession, she had spoken of having sexual thoughts and the priest had threatened her with the flames of Hell. She was bad for thinking them.
‘Are you ganin’ to kiss Tommy next week?’ Lily asked, startling her.
‘No, never!’ Catherine said, flustered.
‘Why not? I think he’s canny.’
‘It wouldn’t be right.’
‘No harm in a bit kiss and cuddle,’ Lily said.
‘Yes there is,’ Catherine protested. ‘It can lead to bairns.’
‘I don’t think it’s in the kissing,’ Lily said doubtfully.
‘Well, I’m not taking any risks. Anyway, Tommy Gallon’s only a pitman - I’m ganin’ to marry someone better.’
Lily snorted. ‘Don’t you be so fussy. Tommy’s in work and earning canny wages compared to some round here. Lads at the steel mills haven’t worked for six months. You should see the poor souls who turn up at the workhouse desperate for anything.’
Catherine felt uneasy. If Rose and John had not stuck by Kate, she and her mother might have ended up in the workhouse too. According to Lily, there were many unmarried mothers and their babies locked away there, until their children were of working age.
‘Well, I’m not looking for a lad,’ Catherine said.
She curled up tight in the bed, trying to banish thoughts of Tommy’s strong arms around her and the smell of soap and coal-dust on his skin. Maybe one kiss wouldn’t do any harm.
Just as she was drifting into sleep, Lily murmured, ‘Wonder what they look like underneath?’
‘Who?’ Catherine yawned.
‘Lads. I’ve never seen a lad with nowt on - not even me da. Have you?’
Catherine’s heart pounded. For a moment she could not breathe. A terrifying image came barging into her mind, unbidden.
‘Course not,’ she gasped.
But in a deep part of her, she knew she was lying. She must be lying, or from where did this picture in her head come? She could never speak of it, not even to Lily, not even the priest.
Catherine lay sweating and shivering, engulfed by anxiety, the joy of the evening gone. Was it her imagination? If so she must truly be wicked. If not. . . She clenched her fists and screwed her eyes tight shut, trying to forget. Just as she had as a child, she pushed her thoughts into an imaginary box and locked them away.
Chapter 4
All through the autumn, Catherine went to the dances with Lily, and Tommy vied with his friend Peter to walk her home. She was baffled by their attention. What was it about her that they could possibly find alluring? Lily was far the prettier. It was just that she gave as good as she got, answered them back instead of blushing and being tongue-tied like some of the other girls. Or maybe they had heard the rumours about her having no da and thought she would be an easy conquest? Well, she wasn’t. They could walk her home till they were drawing their pensions; she wouldn’t give in to either of them without a ring on her finger and the priest’s blessing.
As the days shortened, the light for Catherine’s painting went early. One evening in early December, the family was enjoying a quiet evening around the fireside, Grandda John dozing in his chair, Catherine at his feet, perched on the fender, stitching a cushion cover. Kate was making bread at the kitchen table, flour rising in a yellow cloud in the lamplight.
Catherine’s eyes were aching from the dim light. She rubbed them and looked up. Kate was watching her, hands plunged in a ball of dough.
‘Don’t strain your eyes, hinny. Haven’t you done enough the night?’
‘I’ve a big order for Christmas,’ Catherine yawned.
I’ll help you the morra,’ Kate promised. They smiled at each other. ‘Now shift yoursel’ while I put the bread to rise.’
Catherine stood up and stretched her tired limbs. As Kate dumped the tin of bread on the hearth, the latch on the kitchen door clicked and heavy boots stamped into the scullery. Kate whipped round.
‘Is that you, Davie?’
‘Aye!’
Kate darted towards the door, flinging her arms out as her husband bowled into the room. He caught her in a bear hug and she planted a kiss on his mouth. They laughed like young lovers. Catherine looked away, her stomach clenching. Lily’s words went through her head. You could have a baby brother or sister by this time next year. Heaven forbid! She’d be the one with the burden of helping to bring up a child, stuck here for ever.
‘Hello, Kitty,’ Davie said amiably.
Catherine nodded and sat back down on the fender.
‘Well, don’t just sit there!’ Kate cried. ‘Fetch our Davie a cup of tea from the pot - and there’s a piece of cheese pie left in the pantry. Go on, our Kitty!’
Catherine scowled as she picked up her sewing. ‘I’ve this to finish.’
Kate looked furious, but Davie held her back. ‘Let the lass be. I’m past eating.’ He pulled a half-bottle of whisky out of his duffel coat.
Kate’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll fetch the cups.’
John stirred. ‘What’s that? Davie, is that you, son?’
‘I’ve brought you some baccy,’ Davie grinned at his father-in-law, ‘and a drop of the hard stuff.’
‘Good on you, lad!’ John’s gaunt face smiled. He flapped a hand impatiently at Kate. ‘Get them poured, woman.’
Kate ignored him as she pulled out a chair for Davie and took his coat from him.
‘Sit yourself down. How was your trip? When did you get in? You should’ve sent word and we could’ve come to meet you. Couldn’t we, Kitty? You’re looking as thin as a poker. Have you been ill?’
Davie laughed, his eyes shining with affection. ‘I’m grand. Come and sit beside me, Kate.’
‘No, I can see you need feeding up,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll fetch that pie - and I can fry up some tatties in half a minute.’
Davie caught her arm and swung her on to his knee. ‘Stop fussing.’ He kissed her cheek and poured out whisky into the cups. ‘Pass this one to your grandda, Kitty.’
Catherine eyed him. She was not his skivvy.
‘Gan on,’ John said, prodding her with his foot, ‘do as your da says.’
She got up, biting back a retort and passed over the cup Davie held out. The evening was ruined. They would finish the bottle, then she would be sent out to fetch more. Well, she wouldn’t do it. Kate hadn’t even bothered to wipe the flour off the table before starting to drink. Catherine’s heart sank to think she would have to wait up until all the drinking and talking was over before she could make her bed on the hard settle. Sometimes, as a child, she had curled up and gone to sleep there while the noise and drinking went on around her. But she was too old for that now. It rankled that Kate wanted her warming the bed when Davie was away, but as soon as he was back she was turfed out.
‘How long you back for?’ Catherine asked.
‘Till after Christmas.’
‘That’s grand,’ Kate said in delight. ‘We’ll have the best time ever.’
‘I’ve a present for you, Kitty,’ Davie smiled. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a wodge of newspaper, holding it out to her.
‘Can’t I keep it for Christmas?’ Catherine said, keeping her arms folded.
‘I’ll buy you something else for that.’
Kate said, ‘Gan on, Kitty, don’t be so ungratef
ul. I want to see what it is.’
She took the parcel and unwrapped the foreign newspaper. Inside was a gaudy, painted doll. She felt like telling him she was too old for dolls.
‘It’s Russian. Open it up,’ Davie urged. ‘It pulls apart in the middle.’
Catherine twisted the doll in half, intrigued in spite of herself. Inside was another doll, smaller and painted with different patterns.
‘Do it again,’ Davie chuckled.
Catherine pulled off the top of the second doll, revealing a third one. She carried on until there were six dolls, the final one a tiny replica of the first with nothing left inside, just a hollow sound when she tapped it. Catherine was fascinated and appalled by the expressionless figures. They were just like her, a facade hiding an inner person that she did not dare show the world. If she stripped away all her faces, would she find a frightened hollow person at her core? The thought terrified her. So did the dolls.
Quickly she stuffed them back into each other.
‘Aren’t they bonny?’ Kate demanded.
‘Aye,’ Catherine gulped, ‘but I’m too old for dolls. Maybes cousin Ida would like them. I’ll give them to her the next time Aunt Sarah’s over visitin’. She’d love to play with them.’
Davie gave her a strange look. She had hurt him with her rejection. Or maybe it was his way of saying he could see right through her.
‘There’s no pleasing our Kitty,’ Kate said in annoyance. ‘Don’t mind her. What you got for me, Davie man?’
Davie fumbled in his bag again and pulled out a piece of cloth wrapped in a jumper.
‘You’ve brought me back a duster?’ Kate teased.
‘Look inside.’
She unfolded the cloth with the excitement of a child. Inside was a metal brooch. Kate held it up to the light: an exotic bird painted in china blue.
‘Match your eyes,’ Davie said bashfully.
Suddenly, Kate was crying.
Davie said in alarm, ‘I thought you’d like it—’
‘I do,’ Kate sobbed. ‘It’s beautiful! No one’s given me anything this grand in years.’
‘Don’t be so soft!’ John snorted. ‘What you want with jewellery, any road? Gan to wear it on your pinny?’
She glared at him. ‘I’ll find some’at to wear it on.’ She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Ta, Davie.’ He poured her another shot of whisky.
Catherine watched them from her perch on the fender, wondering if her real father had ever given Kate such a brooch. Alexander would have given her something much grander, she was sure. But if he had, it was sold or pawned long ago, for Kate possessed no jewellery, save Davie’s cheap wedding ring. How she wished there was something from her father that Kate could have passed on to her to keep - some hint of his tastes - tangible proof of his existence. But Kate would have sold it for drink long ago. Anger curdled inside her. She stood up.
‘I want to gan to bed. Some of us have to work the morra.’
‘Sit doon.’ Kate waved at her to be seated. ‘It’s early yet.’
‘You sleep in here then and I’ll gan in the bed,’ Catherine challenged, remaining on her feet.
‘Just a bit longer, hinny.’
‘You’ll not notice the difference after that whisky,’ Catherine muttered.
‘Don’t give me your lip,’ Kate snapped, instantly riled. She was out of her seat and swaying towards her daughter. ‘Don’t look at me with his eyes!’ she hissed. ‘You’ve no right to speak to me like that. I’ve worked me fingers to the bone for you, you selfish lass. I’m entitled to a bit fun when me man comes home from sea. And you’ll not tell me what I’m to do and not to do in me own home, do you hear?’
‘It’s my home an’ all,’ Catherine flashed back, ‘not that you’d think it. Why should I have to gan on the settle like a lodger? I’m bringing in more wages than you - don’t I deserve a bed?’
‘Then gan in with your grandda.’ Kate was dismissive.
Catherine glared at her mother. How could she suggest such a thing, knowing what a lecherous old man he was? She remembered times when old John had come staggering into their bedroom and fumbled drunkenly with Kate while she fought him off, with Grandma Rose lying helpless and bed-bound in the next room.
‘I’ll leave home,’ Catherine threatened wildly, ‘and I’ll not come back!’
‘Don’t talk daft.’
‘I mean it. I’ll sign up with an agency and gan into place.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would!’
John scoffed. ‘You’d not last two minutes skivvying for posh folk. You’ve too many airs and graces.’
Catherine was riled. ‘I can work as hard as any lass round here.’
‘It’s what’s in your head’s different,’ John said. ‘You take after me -won’t be put upon by the bosses. They’re no better than us, Kitty. Still have to wipe their backsides, whoever they are. You don’t want to work for the nobs - that’s for common lasses like Kate.’
‘Don’t call me common!’ Kate blazed. ‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black!’
In an instant, John had seized the poker and was brandishing it at Kate. But he was slower on his feet than in times past, and she easily stepped out of his way. He cursed her and lunged again.
‘I’ll tak the frying pan to you again,’ she threatened. ‘You’ll not get the better of me, you old fool.’
Catherine jumped aside as John kicked a chair out of his way. Davie got up and barged between them.
‘Haway, there’s no need for this.’
‘Out me way,’ John shouted. ‘If you won’t keep her in order, I will.’
‘Put the poker down, man,’ Davie said.
‘This is my house,’ John ranted, waving the poker at Davie. ‘You’ll not tell me what to do.’
Davie grabbed it and wrestled it out of his grip. It clanged on the table, smashing one of the cups. Whisky splashed across the floury surface. Davie pushed John back into his seat. Kate looked triumphant. Not since old Rose had died had she had an ally against the bullying John. Catherine knew from that look that her mother would not be encouraging Davie back to sea in a hurry.
Her protest had backfired. Now Davie would be ensconced at Number Ten for weeks to come. It had been stupid to make threats about leaving, for she had nowhere to go. The walls of the hot cramped kitchen pressed in around her. She was trapped.
Chapter 5
Unofficial war was declared: Kate and Davie against Catherine. At least that was how Catherine saw it. Kate left her to run the house while she was out at work and expected tea on the table when she got in. But Catherine had the men demanding food and drink all day long, as well as trying to complete her Christmas orders. Davie would help with bringing in the coal and go out for the odd errand while buying his newspaper, but John did nothing.
When Kate got home, Davie’s co-operation ceased. He sided with Kate over everything.
‘Do as your mam says,’ he constantly repeated. Or, ‘Can’t you see Kate’s had a hard day? Just do as she asks, lass.’
Catherine seethed with resentment. Every day was a hard day for her. At the end of it she had to carry on working in the dim light with her paints while they sat around chatting and drinking. Kate never helped her with her Christmas orders like she had promised.
‘Lend us sixpence for a jug of beer, hinny,’ Kate whispered in the scullery. ‘You’re making good money.’
‘Why can’t he?’ Catherine protested.
‘Davie’s money is his own - and he’s generous with it. I don’t like to ask.’
Catherine’s look was contemptuous. Why should the men spend their money how they liked, while the women were expected to use theirs on the household? It would be different when she was married. Grudgingly, she gave her mother the sixpence. But she determined Kate would never get to know of the money she saved and hid in the rafters of the outside privy. Years of living in fear at her family’s spendthrift ways had made her cautious. That was hers alone, g
athered from hard work and saving. She would not let her mother drink it all away.
Apart from going to confession and Mass, Catherine hardly left the house all through December. She missed the youth club party.
‘I can’t, Lily man,’ she said distractedly when her friend called, ‘I’ve too much to finish.’
‘You can do it later,’ her friend said impatiently.
‘Folk are relying on these as presents. I can’t let them down. You’ll have to gan with Amelia or one of the other lasses.’
Lily left in a huff and Catherine did not see her again until after Christmas. Catherine sat up late on Christmas Eve finishing her orders. Even Kate belatedly helped with the sewing, though her work was hurried. At midnight, Catherine tramped round Jarrow, making her final deliveries to the more well-to-do houses. By Christmas Day, Catherine was so exhausted she fell asleep during Mass and yawned all through the dinner she helped Kate prepare.
Work did not let up in January. Although there were layoffs at the yards, there seemed to be plenty of custom for her covers. Birthdays, weddings, christenings and the approaching Mothering Sunday gave her more work than she could cope with.
She grew tired and irritable, but would not turn work away. She had to save, so there was money put by. Davie’s wages had run out, but bad weather and slackening trade had delayed his return to sea. At mealtimes, Catherine served the smallest portions to herself until her appetite dwindled and she lost interest in food. No one seemed to notice, yet tempers grew fractious when there wasn’t enough left of Kate’s wages for drink. John hobbled down the hill to Tyne Dock to spend his pension round the pubs, but would give Kate nothing towards housekeeping.
‘It’s my money - I’ve slaved for it and I’ll spend it how I like,’ John declared when Kate complained.
‘It’s a war pension for our Jack being killed,’ Kate rounded on him. ‘It’s as much mine as yours!’
‘He was my son - my flesh and blood,’ John snarled. ‘You were just his half-sister.’
‘I meant more to him than you ever did,’ Kate said tearfully. ‘He thought the world of me.’
‘He thought you were a slut,’ John spat into the fire. ‘And I’ll tak the belt to ye if you touch a penny of me money.’
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