Jarrow Trilogy 03 - Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Catherine?’ Bridie was shaking her arm. ‘The gentleman’s wanting your opinion.’

  The agent was watching her with detached interest. He obviously thought she was wasting his time and could not afford it.

  ‘I want to buy it,’ she declared with a defiant look. ‘It’ll take a few days to get the money in place. Perhaps we could go back to your office to discuss the price?’

  The man tried to hide his surprise and nodded quickly. Catherine’s heart was hammering at her recklessness. It would take every penny of her savings to put down the deposit and she would have to cash in the insurance policies Maurice had got her to buy. She might be paying off the mortgage with all her salary for evermore, but she would do it.

  Bridie was spluttering with delight and gabbling plans all the way down the hill to town.

  ‘Once we’ve shifted the dirt and given it a splash of paint it’ll look like a palace. Everyone will want to stay at The Hurst - we’ll get quality folk, so we will. And Kate’s used to lodgers. She’ll love being the lady of the manor. No time for the drink. And we can get the groceries delivered, so there’s no excuse to be popping into town. Oh, girl, we’re going to have such a time!’

  It took over a month for the finances to be put in place and the sale completed; weeks in which Catherine’s nerve almost failed her. She must be quite mad to be saddling herself with a run-down mansion, bargain though it was, wiping out her hard-earned savings that, over the years, she had put by, earning good interest, for ‘a rainy day’. She had always been so cautious with money, fearful of being reduced to the plight of those who had no option but to knock on the workhouse door. Now here she was gambling it all on a dream.

  But then she thought of how this venture might be the saving of Kate and a new beginning for them all. It was only lowly Kitty of the New Buildings who was afraid of taking on such a place. Catherine McMullen, senior officer of Hastings Poor Law Institute and member of the tennis club, had no such qualms. The Hurst was a fitting home for such a professional woman.

  So, just before she turned twenty-seven, Catherine became the sole owner of a home that could have housed half of William Black Street in Jarrow. The day they moved in and set to work scrubbing down walls and floors, Catherine thought of her friend Lily Hearn. So often in the past they’d had conversations about their future dreams, of marrying rich men and living in luxury. She was the only one Catherine had ever confided in about her yearning to discover her father and the privileged world that should have been hers.

  As Catherine fell into bed that night, aching all over from the back-breaking cleaning, she knew Lily would have understood her obsession to possess The Hurst. It went beyond a craving for security. It was as if she were fulfilling the destiny that was snatched away from her even before she was born. She was a Pringle-Davies, an owner of property, a respectable middle-class woman. And she had done it all without the help of any man - father or husband.

  Chapter 35

  It was summer before The Hurst was in any state to open its doors to boarders. The boiler had to be replaced, and Catherine and Bridie scoured the auction rooms for second-hand furniture to furnish the bedrooms. For the first time in over two years Catherine had the luxury of her own bedroom - a beautiful room at the front of the house, with a view over the garden. She slept with the curtains open so that she woke gradually in the early light to the sound of birdsong and watched the dawn filter through the trees. It was the most tranquil part of the day, just her and the birds and sunshine on leaves. But at the end of each month Catherine had nothing left in the bank and she still had to pay the lease on the maisonette in Laurel Street. She sublet it and placed advertisements in the local newspapers for lodgers for The Hurst.

  ‘We can share a room again,’ Bridie suggested. ‘Then you can rent out that nice one at the front at a higher price.’

  Catherine was reluctant to give up the room but Bridie was right. Within two days they had a retired major for the large front bedroom. He brought a battered old trunk and a wind-up gramophone.

  ‘Happy to share my record collection,’ said Major Holloway, plonking a box of records in the sitting room. Kate and Bridie rushed to look through them.

  ‘Never heard of half of these,’ Kate said in disappointment.

  ‘Opera, my dear lady,’ the major chuckled, putting one on the turntable and winding up the brass handle. They sat and listened.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Kate said at the end. ‘Didn’t catch a word of it.’

  ‘The tenor was singing in Italian, dear lady,’ said Major Holloway. ‘The language of love.’

  Kate gave him a dubious look. ‘Give me a good north-country song any day,’ she sniffed, and went off to make tea.

  Over the next few weeks the number of residents grew. A pale, willowy young woman called Dorothy was brought by her parents.

  ‘Needs to be by the sea for the air, doctor says,’ her mother explained in hushed tones. ‘The air in London’s making her ill.’ They left in a shiny black Ford, promising to visit every month. Dorothy stood forlornly looking down the drive until Catherine coaxed her back inside with the promise of cherry cake.

  Two more came by July: a thin-faced piano tuner and a ventriloquist who talked to himself at mealtimes. They were joined by a retired merchant seaman, who liked to shave in the open-air, a retired cook from a boarding school and a reclusive poet who stayed in his room all day and prowled around the house at night, helping himself to food from the kitchen, to Kate’s alarm.

  ‘Scared me out of me wits,’ she complained, ‘sitting by the stove eating cold stew in the middle of the night.’

  ‘What were you doing up at that hour?’ Catherine asked suspiciously.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep, that’s what,’ Kate mumbled. ‘You’ll have to tell him he can’t gan creepin’ round like a ghost.’

  ‘I can hardly lock him in his room.’

  Kate grumbled. ‘They’re a queer lot - not workin’ lads like we used to have lodging with us.’

  Catherine snorted. ‘They were just as mixed a bag as these ones. And as long as they’re all paying and not harming anyone, doesn’t matter what they’re like.’

  She felt sympathy for the solitary poet, who never seemed to get anything written, for wan Dorothy, whose parents did not visit as promised, and wheezing Mrs Fairy, the retired cook, who hung about the kitchen offering to help, not knowing what to do with retirement. She felt protective towards them and tried to shield them from Kate’s impatience and Bridie’s teasing.

  But it worried Catherine to think Kate might not be able to cope. After all, it was ten years since she had last taken in lodgers. She was snappy and bad-tempered in the mornings when Catherine and Bridie were rushing to work, then full of petty complaints on their return in the evening. Tom, the piano tuner, had left his false teeth in the sink; Mrs Fairy had used up all the sugar in a chocolate cake for Maisie and made the girl sick. Ventriloquist Barny had upset Harold, the poet, by practising his noisy monkey routine all morning and Harold was demanding to sleep in the tower.

  ‘And I think that Dorothy’s got the consumption,’ Kate warned, ‘coughing all over the place. That’s why she’s been dumped here. We’ll all die of it if you let her stay. Me father and sister Margaret died like that. Terrible business. Lass should be in the sanatorium.’

  Catherine, already exhausted by a long hot day at the laundry, had to roll up her sleeves and help with the evening meal, calming tempers and charming the guests and Kate back into good humour.

  Only the cheerful major seemed oblivious to Kate’s grumbles or the tensions between the other residents. As long as he had music playing on his gramophone he was happy, and turned a deaf ear to those who did not appreciate opera as much as he. Sometimes, Catherine would enjoy sitting in the conservatory on a late summer’s evening with Major Holloway listening to Puccini or Verdi and watching the shadows steal across the lawn.

  He would talk about his army days in South Africa and
the Middle East, until Bridie would come and scold them for staying up late.

  ‘Look at you yawning - big enough to swallow us all. Up to bed this minute, my girl. Major, you can sleep till noon but Miss McMullen must be up with the lark.’

  The major blustered with apologies and shut the lid of the gramophone. Catherine thought he was probably frightened of Bridie. Bridie certainly had as little time for him as Kate.

  ‘Shouldn’t let him keep you up to all hours,’ she fussed as they got into bed.

  ‘He doesn’t. I choose to sit in my own garden room and he happens to be there.’

  ‘Only when you are,’ Bridie sniffed. ‘He’s got his sights set on you - and this place, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. He’s much too old.’

  ‘And you’re much too soft-hearted,’ Bridie declared. ‘I know he’s sometimes late with his rent and what do you do? Not a thing.’

  ‘Only the once,’ Catherine protested.

  ‘It’ll cause bad feeling if the others get to hear of it.’

  ‘Well, they won’t, will they? Not unless you tell them.’ Catherine gave her a warning look. ‘And what people pay and when they pay it is my concern.’

  ‘Well, that’s gratitude for you!’ Bridie cried. ‘And after I’ve worked my hands to the bone helping get this place nice for you. I’m just an unpaid maid in your eyes!’

  Catherine was quick to placate her. ‘Of course you’re not. You’re my best friend,’ she insisted. ‘This is your home as much as mine.’

  Bridie was soon mollified, but after that, Catherine was careful to avoid being left alone with the major. For some reason Bridie seemed jealous of the genial man and Catherine did not want to upset her friend. But soon her worries over Kate overshadowed any arguments over the major.

  Her mother’s behaviour was becoming increasingly erratic. Some days she was full of a manic energy, cleaning windows at six in the morning and singing at the top of her voice; on others she was listless and bad-tempered, and Catherine had to shake her awake.

  ‘They’re all waiting for their breakfast,’ Catherine cried.

  ‘You get it,’ Kate mumbled, and buried her head under the covers.

  Catherine left in exasperation, knowing that she would have to serve breakfast and be late for work. Mrs Fairy came to the rescue.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ the old cook offered. ‘I can whip up some scrambled eggs and young Maisie can help me.’

  Catherine gratefully accepted, even though she knew Kate would be indignant about it later in the day.

  As she walked to work with Bridie, her friend abruptly said, ‘I’m sure Kate’s drinking again. The way she’s acting.’

  Catherine was shocked by the suggestion. Yet Bridie was only voicing her own unspoken fear.

  ‘I haven’t seen her at it, have you?’ Catherine countered.

  ‘She’s sly - drinking after we’ve all gone to bed, I reckon. That’s why she’s like a bear with a sore head some mornings.’

  ‘But she can’t be,’ Catherine said wildly. ‘She doesn’t go out - I know that from Mrs Fairy. She hasn’t set foot in a pub since we moved. And I don’t give her any money.’

  Bridie just shrugged.

  Catherine’s heart sank. ‘Oh, Bridie, I hope you’re wrong. I don’t know what I’d do if she started all that again.’

  Unexpectedly, while Catherine was trying to work out how to confront her mother, Davie turned up on leave. At first, she welcomed his arrival. Kate’s humour improved and Davie was eager to help out doing odd jobs around the house. There was so much to be done: rotten window frames to replace, roof tiles to fix, gutters to clean. But after a week, Kate grew impatient.

  ‘He’s not here to mend your palace,’ she complained, ‘he’s here to see me. Haway, Davie lad, I’m ganin’ to show you the sights of Hastings.’

  Catherine felt leaden. She knew just what sights her mother had in mind. She tried to warn Davie.

  ‘She’s promised me she’s off the drink. Please don’t let her start again - don’t give her any money.’ But even as she pleaded with her stepfather, she knew he was not strong enough to keep Kate in check. By the way he looked at Kate, Catherine knew Davie still idolised his wife and would do anything to keep her happy.

  ‘I’m only here another week,’ he said with an apologetic glance. ‘A week won’t make a difference.’

  But by the end of Davie’s leave, Kate was in defiant mood. The day he left, Catherine found her openly swigging whisky from a teacup in the kitchen. Catherine seized it from her and dashed the dregs into the sink.

  ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ Catherine demanded angrily.

  ‘Drunk it,’ Kate slurred. ‘And why not? Me Davie’s gone; was drowning me sorrows. He’s the only one who cares.’

  ‘The only one who’ll buy you drink, you mean,’ Catherine said impatiently. ‘Well, the party’s over.’ She faced her mother. ‘There’s to be no more of it, do you hear?’

  Suddenly Kate burst into tears. ‘I cannot bear it,’ she sobbed. ‘Me own daughter hates me. You just want a skivvy, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Catherine said, trying to keep her temper. ‘I’ve given you a home, haven’t I? This place is costing me a fortune, but I did it for you. You’re the one wanted a job to do, remember?’

  ‘They all hate me,’ Kate whimpered. ‘Look down their posh noses. And you’re just the same now.’ She got up, swaying. ‘I’ll gan back to Jarrow. I’ll gan now.’ She took a few unsteady steps towards the door, banging into the kitchen table. Kate clutched her hip in pain.

  Catherine reached out. ‘Don’t talk daft. You’re going to bed to sleep it off.’

  Kate tried to push her away, but Catherine was stronger and marched her to the door. Mrs Fairy was in the corridor and came to help.

  ‘Banged her hip on the table,’ Catherine said briskly. ‘She’s going to lie down for a bit.’

  The stout cook asked no questions as she helped get Kate up the stairs and into her bedroom. Afterwards the woman said, ‘I’ll help with the Sunday tea. Let her sleep it off.’

  Catherine smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks, but I can’t keep relying on you to come to the rescue.’

  ‘Why not? Cooking’s been my life, dearie,’ Mrs Fairy beamed.

  ‘Well, I’ll deduct some of your rent this month,’ Catherine offered quickly. The older woman gave a shrug of agreement. No doubt Bridie would scold her for her readiness to reduce the cook’s rent, but the arrangement was only fair.

  Catherine added more awkwardly, ‘And, Mrs Fairy, could you keep an eye on my mother - let me know if she - er - gets herself in a similar state again?’

  Mrs Fairy nodded. She was a Methodist and had texts on her bedroom wall urging temperance and godliness. She would be an ally in controlling Kate.

  But as the autumn wore on, Catherine’s worst fears were confirmed.

  ‘She drinks rum with Mr Wilkie in the summerhouse,’ Mrs Fairy reported.

  Catherine gawped in amazement. The retired merchant seaman was a keen gardener and was out in all weathers sweeping up leaves and clearing the flowerbeds.

  ‘She takes him out a cup of tea mid-afternoon,’ Mrs Fairy continued, ‘and doesn’t come back in for an hour. Leaves Maisie to mind the fire and the stove on her own. And that’s not all. She’s ordering alcohol with the groceries. Couldn’t work out where she was hiding it, till I came across a bottle of vodka in the drying room - down behind the pipes.’

  ‘With the groceries?’ Catherine cried in disbelief. ‘But I pay the bills. There’s never been any charge for vodka.’

  ‘Must have it down as something else,’ the old cook suggested.

  Catherine went straight to her desk and riffled through the bills. When she looked closer, some of the amounts seemed excessive. One week there was a huge weight of flour ordered, the next enough boot polish to wax the footwear of a regiment. More recently there seemed to have been a large volume of clea
ning gumption ordered twice weekly.

  A telephone call to the grocer’s confirmed that two bottles of whisky or vodka a week had been added to the bill in the guise of other groceries, under instruction from Mrs McDermott.

  ‘Sorry, missus,’ the clerk apologised, ‘but she said it was in case some of the teetotal residents signed for the packages and got offended. Said it was for medicinal purposes.’

  Catherine gave him short shrift. ‘In future you are to ignore any requests from Mrs McDermort. Either Mrs McKim or I will be ringing in the orders from now on. If there’s any alcohol delivered here again, I shall take my business elsewhere.’

  She told Bridie the whole story that night. ‘What shall I do? I don’t trust her. And I can’t ask Mrs Fairy to watch her all hours of the day. She’s already helping out in the kitchen more than she should, Kate’s getting that unreliable with the meals.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Bridie agreed. ‘She can’t be trusted. Leaving my Maisie to put coal on the fire - she could have us up in flames.’ Bridie was indignant. ‘The only answer is for one of us to be here all the time.’

  Catherine was dismayed. ‘But I can’t. We need every penny of my salary to keep this roof over our heads.’

  ‘Then it’ll have to be me,’ Bridie said in resignation. ‘The money we save on Kate’s drinking will probably cover the loss of my wages,’ she added with a weak laugh.

  When they confronted Kate, she went on the attack.

  ‘It’s all lies! Me and Wilkie drink tea, that’s all. That fat old cook, sticking her nose in - she’s just jealous ‘cos he’s friendly with me and not her.’

  ‘I know how you’re getting it,’ Catherine said. ‘I’ve spoken to the grocer.’

  Kate flushed. “Twas just the odd half-bottle now and then. For me aches and pains. Am I not allowed a bit medicine? You work us that hard.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be necessary from now on,’ Catherine told her sharply. ‘Bridie’s giving up her job to help you run The Hurst. She’s in charge from now on - and that includes the ordering.’

  Kate banged her fist on the kitchen table, making Maisie jump.