Jarrow Trilogy 03 - Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Aye, she’s looking grand,’ Davie nodded.

  Shortly afterwards, Catherine said she was tired and retreated to the front room. It smelt musty and unused. There were no rugs on the floor and her shoes echoed over the floorboards. The parlour table and chairs had gone and the fire was empty of fire irons or fender. The bulky iron bed was still in the corner, but the only other piece of furniture was one of the kitchen chairs with a wash jug and bowl balanced on top. Catherine shivered and climbed under the covers with half her clothes still on. If it was this cold in the summer, she could only imagine how icy the winters must be.

  The next day, having walked down the bank into Jarrow and seen the large groups of men standing idly round on street corners, she could no longer ignore the obvious. Jarrow was in the grip of a massive slump.

  Whenever she had read of such things in the national newspapers at the library in Hastings, she had quickly skimmed over the page. There had always been poverty on Tyneside; it came and went like the tide. But this was different. She had never seen so many out of work, so many children picking over the dross on the railway sidings. The cranes that she had seen from the train were rusting and still, the queues for yesterday’s bread long. There was an air of resignation in the stance of the bystanders, their shoulders hunched against the river wind, hands plunged deep into threadbare trouser pockets.

  She found Davie shaving on a stool in the back yard with a razor worn thin with years of use. Quietly he answered her questions. There had been strikes and riots down on the quayside caused by disputes between rival seamen desperate for work. Arab sailors who had lived here for years had been deported. The chemical works were closed and Palmer’s had gone bankrupt with many workers losing their savings as well as their jobs.

  Then he left her speechless with his admission that he and Kate had been forced to apply for dole and be means tested by the Social.

  ‘The means test?’ Catherine gasped. What an indignity for her hardworking mother.

  Davie nodded. ‘Had to sell half the furniture before they’d give us a penny,’ he said, unable to hide his bitterness.

  ‘Kate never said.’

  ‘She wouldn’t - not to you. Too proud. Besides, she wouldn’t want to worry you, lass.’

  Catherine felt her eyes sting with tears. She thought of her haven in Hastings, with its pleasant furnishings, a vast world away from this dismal existence in Jarrow, but when she tried to raise the matter with Kate, her mother was quick to shrug it off.

  ‘He shouldn’t have told you,’ she said crossly. ‘We’re getting by.’

  ‘I can send you money.’

  ‘They’d just tak our dole away if you did, hinny,’ Kate said, putting out a hand to touch her. ‘I don’t want them busybodies coming round here, poking their noses in again.’

  ‘They needn’t know,’ Catherine said.

  Kate snorted. ‘One of the gossips round here would sharp tell them.’

  Catherine looked so worried, Kate shook her gently. ‘It’s enough to know you’re gettin’ on well down south, hinny. That’s better than all the tea in China. What I wouldn’t give to see this Hastings of yours.’

  Catherine looked away, pretending she had not seen the longing in her mother’s eyes. She wrote almost daily to Bridie, pouring out her dismay at what she had found. Yet, she took heart from one thing: Kate had never seemed so contented. There was scant food in the pantry and long hours to fill, but her mother was cheerful and sober with no John to bully or deride her. Davie was affectionate and attentive, and Kate basked in his kindness like a cat in sunshine.

  ‘This one thing pleases me,’ Catherine wrote to her friend, ‘that Kate and Davie are happy together. I’ve often felt guilty for turning my back and making a life away from Jarrow, away from Kate, but now I see I was right to do it. It’s Kate and me that can’t make each other happy and it’s best we stay apart. I’m glad I came back and you were right to make me, but a week has been long enough. I can’t wait to get back to Hastings and be with you again.’

  While Catherine was packing her case, Davie appeared in the doorway. Kate was up the street, borrowing sugar for a final cup of tea.

  ‘She’d like nothing better than to pay you a visit, lass,’ he said. ‘Would do her the world of good to get away for a bit.’

  Catherine was flustered. ‘But I’ve got such a small flat - and she couldn’t afford the train fare, could she?

  Davie studied her. ‘No, but you could.’

  Catherine flushed, ashamed of her own reluctance. How could she possibly explain that she had spent two years forging a new life for herself, a new identity, burying her anger and hurt over her mother. A visit from Kate could wreck her new-found peace of mind, let alone her standing in the eyes of her colleagues and friends.

  She turned away, unable to meet his look. ‘I’ll leave money in the caddy,’ she mumbled. ‘Make sure she spends it wisely.’

  Kate came with her to the station. Catherine tried to hurry past the neighbours, but her mother waved and called out to the women at their doorsteps, proudly showing off her well-dressed daughter.

  As they walked down the bank, Kate said, ‘You never went to see Lily Hearn.’

  ‘No.’ Catherine tensed. Several times she had almost set out to go and see her former friend, but her courage had failed.

  ‘Did you two have a falling out?’

  Catherine shrugged.

  ‘Canny lass, Lily,’ Kate mused. ‘Saw her at Easter Mass. Was asking after you.’

  Catherine wanted to ask a dozen questions, but they stuck in her throat. It was still too hurtful to think Lily had spread rumours about her at Tendring.

  ‘What’s this new friend of yours like?’ Kate asked, as they reached the barrier at the station. This Bridie lass.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Not really a lass - nearer your age than mine.’

  Kate’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Thought you didn’t like bossy older women,’ she teased.

  ‘Bridie’s not bossy, she’s a real friend,’ Catherine retorted, as she showed her ticket and went through the turnstile. Kate had not bought a ticket for the platform, so could not follow.

  When Catherine turned, she realised it was too late to hug her goodbye. Kate stood, her look forlorn.

  ‘I’m glad for you, hinny,’ Kate said, her eyes glinting with tears.

  Catherine felt wretched with guilt. She had not meant to be hurtful and could not bear the thought of her mother crying at her leaving. The guard was going up the train slamming the doors and there was no time left.

  Suddenly Catherine blurted out, ‘Maybe you could meet Bridie some day.’

  Kate clutched the barrier. ‘What do you mean, lass?’

  ‘Come and visit us in Hastings,’ Catherine gabbled as she turned to get on the train. She threw her case on board and climbed in. Pulling down the window of the carriage, she leant out and saw her mother’s face beaming with delight.

  ‘That’d be grand, Kitty!’ she cried over the noise of steam as the train ground into motion.

  Catherine smiled back, a warmth flooding through her that took her quite off guard. ‘I’ll write to you soon,’ she promised with a wave.

  Kate waved back frantically and, even through the steam, Catherine could see her face was wet with sudden tears. Her mother and Tyne Dock station disappeared in smoke. As Catherine sat back, the first twinge of doubt came. What had she been thinking of, inviting her mother at the last minute when she had spent a week being careful to avoid any such invitation? Kate in Hastings!

  Then she thought of Bridie. She would not have to cope with her mother on her own; her friend would be there to stand up to Kate too. They would tackle any difficulties together. Catherine felt a new surge of courage.

  Chapter 29

  Once back in Hastings, Catherine hoped her mother might forget her rash invitation to visit. Life settled back into its normal routine of busy working day and pleasant evenings at the flat with Bridie. That autum
n, Catherine took up painting, joining a life-drawing class for adults. She had not touched a paintbrush since the days of painting cushion covers in Jarrow, but found that she still had an eye for perspective and detail. In a small way, it made her feel connected to her elusive father, whose drawing of Great-Aunt Lizzie’s family remained fresh in her memory. She tried to practise on Bridie, but her friend found it impossible to keep still and silent for any length of time.

  ‘You can make it into one of those impressionist paintings,’ Bridie teased, when Catherine lost patience with her fidgeting. ‘I can’t be doing with sitting like a statue. If you want something that doesn’t move, paint that banana over there.’

  Then a letter came from Kate, reproving her for forgetting her promise.

  ‘Did you not mean it when you asked me to come and see Hastings and meet your friend? I dearly want to come. Write and tell me, lass. I will need a lend of the train fare, but will pay you back when Davie gets work.’

  Catherine passed it to Bridie to read.

  ‘What’s the harm in a little visit?’ Bridie asked. ‘You can send her a return ticket, so she can’t outstay her welcome. I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t.’

  Bridie pulled a frightening face. ‘I want to see what sort of monster produced such a kind and pretty daughter,’ she teased.

  Catherine laughed and threw a cushion. ‘I suppose if it was just for a week . . .’

  So in November money for a return ticket was sent, and Catherine relented and suggested a fortnight’s holiday. She half expected to hear nothing more, believing her mother would spend the money on Davie and drink. But a letter came the following week with Kate’s travel plans and arrival time.

  Anxiety kept Catherine awake for days beforehand, and she found herself tired and short-tempered with those around her. Only Bridie understood why. Mrs Townsend was eager to meet her mother and insisted they must all come for Sunday lunch.

  ‘Why did you have to tell her Kate was coming?’ Catherine accused her friend.

  ‘Because if she found out afterwards, you’d never hear an end to the woman’s questions,’ Bridie declared. ‘Stop fretting, girl.’

  By the time Kate arrived on the Saturday, Catherine was sick with nerves and unable to keep her breakfast down. She felt like a small girl again, brimming with unspoken anxieties. Bridie marched her down to the station, encouraging and bullying her every step.

  ‘Ever thought of joining the army?’ Catherine joked morosely. ‘You’d be the perfect sergeant.’

  ‘Quiet in the ranks,’ Bridie laughed.

  Catherine stood shaking at the barrier, imagining Kate staggering off the London train inebriated and shabbily dressed. Or maybe she would not have managed the train changes and been picked up by the police instead.

  ‘Is that her?’ Bridie asked. ‘The woman in the cloche hat and the purple coat?’

  Catherine squinted up the platform. ‘Where?’

  ‘You need glasses, girl. The one that’s waving at you.’ Bridie waved back. ‘Doesn’t look like a three-headed monster to me.’

  For a moment, Catherine saw a neatly dressed middle-aged stranger, with a close-fitting hat, chatting to the porter who was taking her bag. Then she noticed Kate’s familiar ambling gait as she walked towards them.

  ‘She’s got a limp,’ Catherine told Bridie quickly. ‘It doesn’t mean she’s drunk.’

  Bridie said nothing, just gave Catherine’s arm a squeeze of encouragement. She felt a surge of courage.

  Kate came bustling through the barrier. This is my daughter, Kitty,’ she told the porter proudly. ‘She’s a manager, you know.’ Kate threw her arms around Catherine in a hug of excitement.

  Catherine stiffened. Her mother was just showing off in front of the man.

  ‘This is Bridie,’ Catherine said, quickly pulling away.

  For an instant, the two older women sized each other up, then Bridie held out a hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs McDermott,’ Bridie smiled charmingly. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’

  ‘Aye, me an’ all,’ Kate said, shaking her hand.

  Catherine noticed she was wearing gloves. Kate must have borrowed them from Mary. There was no smell of alcohol; she was making a real effort. Catherine felt a sudden wave of relief that the visit might go well. Kate slipped an arm through Bridie’s as if they were old friends and began to chatter about the journey. Only Catherine seemed to notice the porter standing waiting for a tip.

  ‘Kate - your bag,’ she interrupted her mother.

  Kate turned in a fluster. ‘Eeh, hinny, can you give the lad a penny? He’s been that helpful.’

  Catherine produced a sixpence from her purse, paid the man and took the bag. She followed the other two, who were deep in conversation again, half relieved that they seemed instantly to like each other, half annoyed at being left to carry Kate’s cheap portmanteau.

  They took the bus up the hill to Clifton Road and Catherine felt a rush of pride as Kate stood open-mouthed in admiration at her flat.

  ‘It’s that grand,’ her mother said in awe, as she moved about the main room, touching the furniture and feeling the curtains. When she turned, she had tears in her eyes. ‘I’m proud of you, lass.’

  ‘Didn’t I say your ma would love it?’ Bridie beamed, and rushed about making tea and fussing around them both. ‘Catherine has such good taste.’

  ‘Oh, Catherine is it?’ Kate teased. ‘What happened to my Kitty?’

  ‘Grew up and turned into a beautiful swan,’ Bridie joked.

  After the evening meal, they sat by the fire and told stories, Kate gossiping about Jarrow neighbours and Bridie about Ireland.

  ‘So you’ve a daughter an’ all?’ Kate looked surprised.

  ‘A daughter and a man gone missing,’ Bridie said ruefully, ‘just like you.’

  Kate flushed. ‘Kitty has let her tongue go.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bridie reassured her with a quick hand on her arm, ‘I’d not tell a soul. I think you’re brave as a lion, keeping your daughter with no man to stand by you. I know how cruel people can be. You’re a woman after my own heart.’

  Kate smiled in gratitude. ‘It can’t be easy for you, being separated from your Maisie.’

  Bridie nodded. ‘What I wouldn’t give to have her here with me.’

  The two women fell into a sympathetic silence.

  Catherine rose, uncomfortable at their easy confiding. ‘I think we should get some sleep.’

  Bridie was up at once. ‘Kate, you must share the bed with Catherine. I’ll sleep on the couch.’

  It was years since Catherine had bedded down with her mother in the feather bed at home. Anxiety gripped, as Kate flopped down beside her. It was ridiculous that she should still feel this way; she was a grown woman, not a child frightened of the night. Yet she wondered if the old nightmares might return, and the ingrained fear of drunken adults.

  She had strange half-memories of being woken in the night by rustling and the suppressed cries of Grandma Rose pleading in the next room for John to leave her alone. At other times a dark shadow hovered over them and Kate hissed at someone to leave her be. Not Grandda John this time. Could it be Uncle Jack or a long-forgotten lodger? Catherine fought to overcome such disturbing thoughts. She lay tensed in the dark.

  Gradually, she was calmed by the firelight flickering on the ceiling and the sound of a sea wind in the chimney. She grew drowsy listening to Kate’s even breathing, the scent of lily of the valley and the warmth of her mother’s body strangely comforting.

  ‘Catherine, are you awake?’ Bridie whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine murmured.

  ‘It’s going to be all right - your mother being here. I know it will.’

  Catherine smiled sleepily. ‘Umm, hope so.’

  Within minutes she was asleep.

  The next day they went to Mass at St Mary Star-of-the-Sea in the old town, followed by lunch at the Townsends’. There was
one anxious moment when the master offered Kate a sherry, but her mother declined. She shot Catherine a triumphant look as she did so. Conversation rattled around the table and Mrs Townsend was so taken with Kate that she insisted on her paying a visit to the workhouse.

  ‘You’ll want to see what a fine job Catherine is making of the laundry.’

  ‘Aye, I would.’ Kate looked delighted. ‘I brought her up to be hardworking.’

  ‘And what a good job you did of it.’ Mrs Townsend was full of praise.

  So the next day, Kate was shown around the institution. Catherine was taut with nerves about the visit, praying that her mother did nothing embarrassing or offended any of the staff with her plain speaking. But she need not have worried. Kate appeared on her best behaviour, making everyone laugh and delighting them with breathless compliments.

  ‘It’s so much better run than the one back home!’ Kate exclaimed. ‘More like a holiday camp, if you ask me. Bet you have them queuing round the block to get in.’

  ‘We don’t make it that easy for them,’ Mrs Townsend protested.

  ‘No, I was just pulling your leg,’ Kate said hastily. ‘Firm but fair, that’s what you are.’

  Kate revelled in her new surroundings and was perfectly happy to find her way around town while Catherine and Bridie went to work. Catherine fretted all day that her mother would succumb to old habits and spend the wintry afternoons in a public house. But when they returned home, Kate always had the tea ready and was perfectly sober. The weekend came again and they took her on the bus to Brighton, bought her a new outfit and ate fish and chips near the pier.

  Her mother was starry-eyed at the grandeur of the place and the wealth of goods in the shops.

  ‘No one dodging the tick-man round here,’ she laughed.

  At the end of the fortnight, when her mother was due to go, Catherine felt unexpectedly sad. There had been no sign of the difficult, demanding Kate of old. Her mother had made a special effort to fit in and cause no upset. Most of all, she had got on well with Bridie and the evenings had been full of jokes and laughter. It would be so quiet again once she was gone. Catherine felt depressed at the thought of what her mother would be going back to: a dismal fireside with a morose Davie, if her casual comments were to be believed.