Jarrow Trilogy 03 - Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  The marshlands and desolate empty coast drew her like a siren, yet she found the low, monotonous skyline dreary now. Lines of geese flew over, crying out mournfully, and echoed her own growing unhappiness with Essex. She thought back to the bright days of summer and wondered how the adventure had turned sour so quickly.

  Strangely, as Catherine’s melancholy deepened, Lily’s spirits rallied. She began talking to the other staff again, chattering on about South Shields at Christmas time.

  ‘I’m ganin’ home for Christmas,’ Lily told Catherine. ‘Don’t care what it costs, I’m not sittin’ round here watching this lot stuffin’ themselves with plum puddin’ and pretendin’ to have a bit fun. Are you comin’?’

  Catherine was torn. She did not relish the holidays at Tendring, but neither could she face going home. It would be an admission of defeat. To assuage her guilt, she sent Kate money to pay for Christmas dinner and presents for the family.

  On a dark, wintry morning, she walked down to the gates with Lily and helped lift her bag into Vines’s truck. The porter held a lantern aloft and her friend looked flushed and happy in the pale light.

  ‘Why don’t you come back, Kitty?’ she said impulsively. ‘There’s still time.’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘You have a grand time and I’ll see you in a week. You can tell me all about it.’

  Something about Lily’s expression made her heart jolt. She grabbed her friend’s arm. ‘You are coming back, aren’t you?’

  Lily said nothing, her eyes full of regret.

  ‘You’re not, are you?’ Catherine whispered.

  Lily said, ‘I never really wanted to gan away - just did it for you, Kitty. Not sure I can do it twice.’

  Catherine was gripped with panic. ‘It’ll get better - once winter’s over. We’ll have a good laugh again - gan to Clacton - meet new lads.’

  Lily’s look hardened and she shook her head. Catherine knew then that she had lost her. Vines coughed and muttered he did not have all day to wait.

  ‘What will you do, Kitty?’ Lily asked in sudden concern.

  Catherine said defiantly, ‘Anything but gan back to Jarrow.’

  Briefly, Lily threw her arms about her and they hugged tight. ‘Tak care of yoursel’,’ Lily said, pulling away.

  Catherine swallowed her tears, unable to speak. She watched Lily climb into the truck and waved her away. For a long time she stood shivering, peering into the dark at the vanishing taillights, then numbly tramped back up the drive.

  Later that day, Mrs Atter cornered her.

  ‘Why you not going home like Miss Hearn?’

  ‘Can’t afford to,’ Catherine said tersely.

  ‘Don’t get on with your mother,’ I heard.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Catherine was startled.

  ‘Still, it’s not surprising in the circumstances,’ Mrs Atter said, her eyes narrowed in disapproval. ‘In Mrs Kettlewell’s day, your sort would never have been taken on. This place isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Catherine said in agitation.

  ‘You didn’t fool me for a minute,’ the woman continued. ‘No birth certificate, no brothers or sisters, no talk of a father, gallivanting round the county after men. Tainted with the sin of the mother. I saw it from the beginning.’

  Catherine felt faint. ‘You’ve no right to say such things,’ she gasped. ‘It’s a pack of lies!’ But even as she said it, she knew her burning cheeks gave her away. She barged past and out of the laundry, aware of the other women staring at her.

  Fleeing across the drying yard and into the kitchen garden, she crouched down behind a potting shed and retched into the soil. How many of the workers had overheard Atter’s poisonous accusations? Had she gossiped to anyone else already or, worse still, gone with her suspicions to Mrs Stanway? Who had told her such things? Catherine hugged herself in misery. Only Lily knew about her lack of a real father. Only she could have told such things. A sob caught in her throat. Lily! How could she have betrayed her?

  Catherine howled and wept in hurt and anger that her best friend could have done such a thing. It was petty revenge for losing Bob. But Lily had wronged her far more; the wounds she had inflicted might never heal. Shakily, she got to her feet. Well, she was glad she had gone. Good riddance! She would get on in this world without the likes of Lily Hearn!

  Catherine splashed her face with freezing water from the standpipe and went back to the laundry, glaring her defiance. Later that day, she sought out the mistress and told her she wished to transfer to another institution. Mrs Stanway did not try to dissuade her.

  ‘You northern girls are too rebellious for a quiet country place like ours,’ she commented. ‘You’d do better to find somewhere in the town.’

  January came with icy rain and, before the month was out, Catherine had secured a position at the workhouse laundry in Hastings, on the Sussex coast.

  A few days before she left, a cheerful letter came from Lily saying she was back working at Harton, and wondering why Catherine had not written to her. Catherine felt a momentary pang for her lost friend, then tore up the letter and threw it on the fire in the dining hall. She would not reply. With bleak satisfaction, she thought how, in a matter of days, she would be living further away from Tyneside than ever - and from those who had let her down.

  Chapter 25

  1930-Hastings

  ‘Don’t worry, it might never happen,’ the woman smiled. Catherine recognised the Irish accent that she had often heard ringing through the streets of Jarrow.

  ‘Beg your pardon?’ she asked, startled from her reverie on a park bench. It was too early in the year for boats to be out on the lake, but there were plenty of people walking under the newly budding trees in the mild spring sunshine.

  ‘You look like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders - and you’re far too young and pretty to be carrying such a burden, Miss McMullen.’

  Catherine blushed. ‘How do you know my name?’

  The woman laughed. ‘I’m working at the laundry - have been for a month.’

  Catherine squinted up at her. She was a handsome woman of about forty, with wavy red hair under a cloche hat. There were laughter lines around her blue eyes that for a second reminded her of Kate.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. . .’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ she laughed again. ‘You’ve dozens of women under your command - and you’re always rushing around as busy as a bee - and a worker bee at that. I’m glad to see you allow yourself a few minutes off at the end of the day. All work and no play makes for a dull life, don’t you think?’

  Catherine gawped at her brazenness.

  The woman clapped her hands to her face. ‘Me and my big mouth. Here you are enjoying a minute’s peace and along comes Bridie McKim and spoils it. I’m sorry, Miss McMullen, take no notice of me.’ She began to walk away.

  Without thinking, Catherine jumped up and called after her, ‘No, please, don’t go. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  Bridie turned and smiled quizzically.

  ‘Miss McKim, did you say?’

  ‘Mrs McKim, if the truth be told - though the saints only know where the Mister is,’ she said ruefully. ‘Went out for a newspaper five years ago and hasn’t been back since. Wouldn’t you think he’d be sick of the waiting? And the racing results long out of date.’ She laughed at Catherine’s shocked expression. ‘But you can call me Bridie.’

  Catherine abruptly laughed. It sounded strange in her ears. She had not laughed in months. After a moment’s hesitation, Catherine put out her hand.

  ‘Miss McMullen,’ she replied as they shook hands, then felt foolish because the woman already knew who she was. ‘Catherine McMullen,’ she added.

  She was unsure why she should be telling this to one of her employees, for she had determined on arrival at the Hastings laundry that she would not become overfamiliar with its workers. It had only got her into trouble in the past. Since she had arrived in the seas
ide town, she had kept to herself, content to explore its hilly streets and quaint harbour and the long stretches of reddish-yellow cliffs alone. She had quickly moved out of the workhouse lodgings and rented a room above a greengrocer’s a fifteen-minute walk away.

  She already loved Hastings for its smell of the sea and abundance of flowers so early in the year, for its grand hotels and bow-windowed terraces along the promenade. She enjoyed walking through its spacious parks and the tree-lined streets of large villas, snaking up the hill, secluded from onlookers by laurel and yew. Even in February, when winter storms saw the grey, fermenting sea crashing over the pier and promenade railings, she revelled in its gentility. The sea might be comfortingly familiar and the picturesque fishing fleet on the shingle beach remind her of Shields, but the place was a world away from the stench of the Tyne and its blast of hooters and thunder of goods trains.

  After a long day’s work as head laundress, Catherine walked for miles, up the steep hills that overlooked the sea or along the strand from the fish quay to the bathing pool at St Leonards. She had not thought herself lonely, until now.

  ‘Can I sit myself down a minute?’ Bridie asked. Catherine nodded and sat down beside her. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but you looked that sad when I came by, and you were holding that letter. Is it bad news or something?’

  Catherine stared down at the letter crumpled in her left hand. For a moment, Bridie’s arrival had taken her mind off its sad contents. She had felt detached from Kate’s news, not really believing it.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Grandda - my grandfather’s died. On Maundy Thursday. And there I was on Easter Day, praying for him and not knowing—’ She broke off as a sob welled up and choked her. To her embarrassment she wept openly in front of Bridie. But the older woman did not seem abashed. She squeezed Catherine’s hand quickly.

  ‘You poor girl. Had he been ill?’

  Catherine nodded and fumbled for a handkerchief. Bridie whipped out one of her own. It smelt of lily of the valley, Kate’s favourite, which only made Catherine cry harder.

  ‘Maybe it was a blessing for him,’ Bridie comforted. ‘He’d not be one to linger on in pain, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  Catherine was startled. ‘No, he wouldn’t. How did you know?’

  Bridie shrugged. ‘Men make the worst of patients. I nursed my own father. Was a blessing when he went - just to see his face free of the pain, like a little lad sleeping again.’

  Catherine sniffed. ‘I feel that bad I never got to see him again. Left home last summer and never went back for Christmas, even though my aunt wrote and told me he was ill. Now I know I should have.’

  ‘And where is home?’

  ‘Jarrow, Tyneside.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ Bridie declared, ‘that’s the other end of the country. He wouldn’t have expected you to go all that way just for a day or two’s holiday, now would he?’

  Catherine crumpled the letter harder. ‘My mother did. Said Grandda lost heart after I went - off his food, showed no interest in anything ‘cept when a letter came from me. Blames me for him going downhill so quickly - though she could never stand his guts when he was alive.’

  ‘Does she say all that in the letter?’ Bridie asked in concern. ‘That’s a terrible burden for you, so it is.’

  ‘Not exactly word for word,’ Catherine admitted, ‘but I can read between the lines.’

  ‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t.’ Bridie was forthright. ‘Maybe your mother’s trying to comfort you by saying that your grandfather thought so much of you.’

  The thought had not occurred to Catherine and she was reluctant to believe it.

  ‘She wants me to go back for the funeral, but I couldn’t possibly. The expense - and the time off work - I’ve too much to do. And what good would it do? He’s dead and gone. I’d be more use lighting candles for him and praying down here.’

  She looked at Bridie for reassurance. The woman nodded and patted her hand.

  ‘Of course you would. I’m sure if you write and explain, your mother and father will understand.’

  Catherine quickly looked away. The mention of her father made her suddenly anxious. But then it struck her that, to this stranger, she was a normal, respectable woman with an ordinary family. How wonderful it was to be seen in such a light. It made her the more determined not to return to Tyneside and open up all the old wounds of past shame and failure.

  ‘I’ll send money, of course,’ Catherine brightened, ‘help with funeral costs.’

  Bridie nodded and murmured about her being generous and thoughtful. Catherine felt a wave of gratitude. Shortly afterwards, Bridie said goodbye and went on her way. Catherine sat on wondering at how she had told this near stranger so much so quickly. She supposed it was because Bridie McKim had been candid about her own circumstances, treating her as if she were a long-lost friend.

  As she made her way back to her lodgings, she wondered if she had been too hasty in confiding in the woman. After all, she was one of the laundry workers, and Bridie might be as garrulous as Hettie Brown or Lily for telling others her business. But there was a warmth about the red-headed woman that had reminded her of her grandma, Rose, and attracted her at once. Her pleasant Irish voice had brought back memories of old John’s tales and made her think of her grandfather with affection, banishing the numb disbelief at his death.

  The thought of Bridie’s kindness fortified Catherine to write to Kate, explaining that she would not be coming home for the funeral.

  Chapter 26

  As summer came, Catherine made the most of the long evenings and fine Sundays to roam the cliff tops and rolling countryside of the South Downs. The regime at Hastings was liberal compared to Harton or Tendring, with more time off. Yet she tried not to make comparisons with the previous summer when she had had Lily as companion, not liking to admit how much she missed her former friend. She felt bad about not replying to Lily’s letter and now it seemed too late.

  Determined not to dwell on the past, Catherine took swimming lessons and went each evening to the open-air bathing pool at St Leonards, invigorated by the chilly water after the heat and noise of the laundry. At work, she noticed Bridie McKim among the others, with her quick tongue and infectious laughter, and wondered how she could have overlooked the woman before.

  Bridie was deferential but friendly, enquiring after her family and the funeral. Catherine kept to herself how Aunt Mary had written in high dudgeon that Kate had squandered on drink half the funeral money that Catherine had sent. Catherine was unsure of the Irish woman, regretting now that she had confided in her so readily. But if she was distant to Bridie, the woman did not seem to mind and continued to amuse her fellow workers when Matron was out of earshot.

  One hot night, restless and overtired, Catherine went for a walk in the moonlight. Down the hill, she skirted the hunched silhouette of the ruined castle and passed the entrance to St Clement’s Caves. She liked to imagine eighteenth-century smugglers hauling their booty up the narrow lanes of the old town in the dark, and making for the dank caves. She had paid her tourist sixpence to see round them on a crowded Sunday afternoon, but on a starry night she fancied she could see ghosts in the shadows and hear the scrape of their boots as the warm wind raked over the shingle. Wending her way down the main street past timber-framed houses and the weather-boarded Bull Inn, she breathed in the smell of the sea and pretended she was keeping a tryst with a darkly handsome smuggler down on the shore.

  Catherine walked from the harbour along the promenade to the very end of St Leonards resort. Taking off her shoes, she padded across the sand to the water’s edge and cooled her feet in the rippling sea. She was startled by laughter, and spun round in alarm. Two figures lay under the promenade wall. In the moonlight she could see them nestling in each other’s arms, suppressing giggles. A few yards further on, another couple were stretched out on the sand, and beyond them another. She had stumbled into the midst of courting couples cooling off in the night breeze
.

  Suddenly, she felt achingly alone. There was no one to put his arms about her and hold her in the dark, to soothe her sleeplessness. She thought of the men she had kissed and held hands with, and wished for one of them now. It was nearly a year since she had lain in the tall reeds on Mersea Island with gentle Alf. She had no idea where he was, but she wished with a passion that he were with her at that moment.

  Snatching up her shoes, Catherine hurried from the beach and its lovers, and fled back to her lodgings. She slept badly, but by the next day had determined to change her circumstances. Hastings was where she wanted to stay, so she would look for a flat of her own and fill it with beautiful possessions. If she could not have company then at least she would have comfort. She was earning a good salary and had saved more than enough to make the down payment of a month’s rent in advance.

  Within a week, Catherine had found a pleasant one-bedroom flat on the ground floor of a large house in Clifton Road. It would be her own place of sanctuary, not a room full of borrowed furniture that reminded her of the tenements of her childhood.

  The same week, she joined the local tennis club and went there on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons. To her surprise, she improved rapidly and soon others were asking her to make up foursomes. With her new-found friends she was relaxed and gregarious, and would regale them with anecdotes about the laundry and its eccentric staff. In a game of mixed doubles Catherine met an insurance agent called Maurice.

  He started to call on her and take her on sightseeing trips in his toffee-coloured Morris Minor. They went as far afield as Brighton and the fig orchards of West Tarring; took picnics by tranquil rivers where mahogany-red cattle grazed the rich pasture. They visited the Norman castle of Herstmonceux. Maurice would not allow Catherine to pay for anything.

  ‘I could, you know,’ she offered. ‘I earn a fair salary.’

  ‘Won’t hear of it,’ Maurice declared. ‘You’re some girl. Beautiful, talented and rich - just the sort of heiress I’m looking for,’ he teased.