Jarrow Trilogy 03 - Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Bridie closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘A walk in the fresh air might clear it.’

  Catherine sighed. ‘No, don’t worry, we’ll come back now. I’m sure Major Holloway will understand.’

  She returned to say goodbye to her friends. As she crossed the ballroom with the major to rejoin Bridie, he murmured, ‘You shouldn’t let her get her own way all the time. Runs rings round you.’

  ‘Who?’ Catherine asked, startled.

  ‘Mrs McKim, of course. Got to show her who’s boss. Otherwise you’ll have a dog’s life.’

  Catherine flushed. ‘I-I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  His look was pitying. ‘No, my dear lady, I don’t think you do.’

  Baffled by his words, Catherine dismissed them. He was just disappointed at having to go early.

  Back at the house, Bridie seemed to revive with a cup of tea. The major excused himself, waving aside Catherine’s attempts to thank him for the evening. The house was quiet, with no sign of anyone else still up. They took their tea into the sitting room, lit only by a flickering fire.

  With a start, Catherine saw a figure rise up from an armchair in the bay window.

  ‘What a fright!’ she gasped.

  ‘S-so the love-birds are back, eh?’ Kate’s voice was slurred.

  Catherine huffed with impatience. ‘If you mean me and the major, we—’

  ‘The major?’ Kate laughed harshly. ‘No, not him.’ She staggered forward and knocked over a small drinks table.

  Catherine fumbled to switch on the standard lamp before something got broken. Light fell in a pool around them. Kate clutched a chair to steady herself, her face blotchy and hair dishevelled. She was very drunk.

  ‘That one there!’ she snarled, pointing a finger at Bridie. ‘She’s your love-bird.’

  ‘Kate, sit down and stop your daft talk,’ Catherine said, trying to steer her to a seat. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Not enough,’ Kate cried, throwing off her daughter’s hand. She barged forward to the piano. Catherine saw a row of bottles arranged along the lid. Kate picked one up and took a swig straight from it. It splashed down her chin.

  ‘I hope you’ve not marked the wood,’ Catherine said indignantly.

  ‘Why should I care about your bloody piano?’ Kate said savagely. ‘You never cared about mine! My little nest egg - all spent on you. Everything on you. Scrimpin’ and savin’ for lessons. Payin’ wi’ owt I had - makin’ pies for the teacher - jus’ for my Kitty. Threw it all back in me face.’

  Catherine answered back. ‘The piano wasn’t paid for - it was taken away. How could I have gone on playing?’

  ‘You never tried,’ Kate accused. ‘Just to spite me.’

  ‘You never asked me if I wanted to learn in the first place. Would have saved us all a lot of bother if you had.’

  ‘You hate me, don’t you? Always have done,’ Kate cried. ‘I can see it in your eyes - those damned eyes of his!’ She swung towards the piano again and seized a bottle in both hands. She took a swig from one and then the other.

  ‘Stop it, Kate—’

  ‘This is what I’m like,’ Kate laughed mirthlessly, ‘this is yer mother. Not good enough for you.’ She poured whisky into her mouth. It splashed down her front. ‘A whore and a drunk, that’s what your grandda called me. That’s what I am.’

  Catherine watched in horror as she did the same with the brandy. Suddenly Bridie moved from beside the fire and wrestled the bottles out of Kate’s hands.

  ‘Enough,’ she decreed. ‘Do you want to kill yourself?’

  Kate fought back for them, staggered and lost her balance. She fell to the floor, raging.

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Kill mesel’. I’ll do it! Then you two whores can be together.’ She picked herself up, panting for breath, her eyes wild.

  ‘Don’t say such things,’ Catherine cried in disgust.

  ‘It’s true,’ Kate shouted. ‘Actin’ all holy to the priest - puttin’ on airs for your lodgers. But I know what you’re really like - worse than me -you and that creature!’ She spat out the words. ‘Sharin’ a bed. What d’you do in it, eh?’

  Catherine was livid. She bunched her fists. ‘How dare you! We do nothing but sleep - not like you when we used to share a bed!’

  Bridie said, ‘Don’t, Catherine, you’re making it worse.’

  But she was too upset to stop. ‘Was it with me grandda or one of the lodgers?’

  Kate gasped in shock. For a moment they stared at each other, numbed by the hateful words. Then Kate’s face contorted in fury. In a flash, she seized one of Davie’s hobnailed boots, left on the hearth, and raised it above her head. With a scream of rage, she hurled it straight at Catherine’s head.

  In that split second, Bridie shoved Catherine. The boot caught Catherine on the side of the head as she turned away. Stunned, she gripped her ear, the pain flaring. Bridie had her arms around her in seconds.

  ‘Are you all right? Let me look. My God, you’re bleeding. Come to the kitchen, I’ll clean it up.’

  Catherine was too shocked to cry.

  Bridie steered her from the room. ‘You’re all right, pet lamb . . .’

  Behind them, through ringing ears, Catherine could hear her mother sobbing.

  Chapter 37

  The next morning, Bridie tried to persuade Catherine to stay in bed.

  ‘You rest,’ her friend urged. ‘I’ll ring Mrs Townsend, tell her you’re sick.’

  Catherine was tempted. Her head throbbed and she dreaded facing the world, especially Kate. But she knew if she did not, then it would be twice as hard later. She had hardly slept, kept awake by dwelling on their terrible row and the hatred on her mother’s face. Her feelings for Kate went beyond resentment and anger; now she feared her mother too. How could they carry on living under the same roof?

  She struggled out of bed, feeling weak and nauseous. For the sake of the residents, she must carry on as if nothing had happened. Carefully, she combed her hair over the cut on her ear and dabbed on extra foundation to cover up the bruising to her cheekbone, wincing at the pain.

  There was no sign of Kate in the kitchen. With Bridie’s help, Catherine made a hasty breakfast and left it in the dining room for the guests to help themselves.

  All day, she worried over what to do, but as she was preparing to drag herself home, she saw Bridie waiting for her outside the laundry gates.

  ‘It’s all calmed down,’ Bridie reported cheerfully. ‘Dorothy and Mr Hobbs are back and Kate’s been making up the beds. Tail between her legs and can’t do enough to help.’

  Catherine said indignantly, ‘She can’t just pretend last night didn’t happen. The things she said to me—’

  ‘She was very drunk. She won’t remember half she said - and probably never meant it.’

  ‘How can you defend her after the things she said about us?’ Catherine accused.

  Bridie shrugged, but Catherine was still filled with disgust at her mother’s poisonous words. ‘Well, I can’t forgive her. She could have killed me with that boot. I don’t feel safe in my own house any more.’ Catherine gripped her arms tensely, willing Bridie to take her side.

  Bridie touched her shoulder in sympathy. ‘It’s up to you, of course. But she’s still your mother. You can’t just throw her out on the street.’ She gave Catherine a wry look. ‘I think it’ll all blow over - once that useless husband of hers clears off to sea.’

  Catherine returned with a heavy heart. She could see no way out of the situation. Kate stood pasty-faced by the kitchen range, hands shaking as she poured Catherine a cup of tea.

  ‘Sorry, Kitty,’ she mumbled, handing over the cup.

  Catherine was still too upset to speak. She busied herself for the rest of the evening, serving supper and chatting to the returned guests, hiding her unhappiness behind a cheerful mask.

  It was Davie who waylaid her on the landing on the way to bed.

  ‘Kitty, can I have a word?�
��

  She nodded warily.

  ‘Kate’s feeling that bad about what she did - tossing me boot at you. She went too far.’

  ‘She always goes too far,’ Catherine said in agitation. ‘I can’t trust her. What if she took against one of the lodgers? You’ll have to take her back, Davie. I can’t cope with her drinking.’

  Davie gave her a desperate look. ‘I can’t. We’ve nowhere to go.’ He put his callused hands on her shoulders. ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like back in Jarrow - ten times worse than when you last saw it. There’s hardly a man in work. It’s a ghost town. Don’t send her back to that, Kitty. It’ll kill her.’

  Catherine shrugged off his hold.

  ‘She’s doing a good job of trying that here - the way she’s drinking.’

  Davie struggled to say something. With alarm, Catherine saw tears welling in his eyes. He gulped. ‘Give her another chance, Kitty.’

  ‘The Hurst was to be her last chance,’ Catherine protested.

  ‘Please! Just one more. You’re the only one can save her.’

  She stood at a loss, the burden of his hopes pressing on her so hard she found it difficult to breathe.

  Finally she whispered, ‘She can stay.’

  ‘Kitty, thanks! You’re a lass in a million—’

  ‘But you have to promise me one thing,’ Catherine interrupted, steeling herself to tell him. ‘You have to keep away from here. You being on leave - it brings out the worst in her.’

  Davie gave her a long pained look. She knew how much it hurt him, but coping with the two of them together was beyond her.

  ‘That’s Bridie talking,’ he said dully.

  ‘No, it’s me.’ Catherine was firm. ‘Do I have your promise? You won’t visit till Kate’s proved she’s off the drink for good.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said hoarsely, and turned away.

  It was the last word they exchanged before he left The Hurst two days later

  ***

  The new year, 1934, was hardly underway, when Catherine was regretting her weakness in letting Kate stay. On the surface, her mother appeared normal, busying herself around the house and calling out cheerily to the guests. But there was a glint in her eye when she looked at Catherine that made the young woman nervous. Kate was seething at Davie’s forced departure and resentful at the watchful eye kept on her drinking.

  Despite Bridie being around the house and Mrs Fairy spying for Catherine, Kate was still managing to get hold of alcohol, though Catherine was baffled as to how. She could find no trace of it, but Kate’s mood seesawed and she was constantly staggering into furniture and breaking things as if inebriated. When challenged, she would laugh manically, or curse Catherine foully and burst into tears.

  Then there was a series of strange incidents. Tom Hobbs went to tune the piano one day and found two of the internal hammers had been snapped off. The following week the door handle of his room was smeared in jam and the contents of his chamber pot spilt on his bedside rug.

  ‘Someone’s got it in for me,’ he complained.

  Catherine confronted her mother. ‘Are you picking on Mr Hobbs for some reason?’

  Kate gave her a wounded look. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘To get back at me about the piano,’ Catherine accused.

  Kate shook her head and walked off. A few days later there was jam on the piano tuner’s door again.

  ‘I’ve found other lodgings,’ he told Catherine at the end of the month. She tried to placate him, but his mind was made up and he left.

  Other bizarre happenings occurred throughout the spring. A mousetrap was found in the ventriloquist’s bed, soap was put in the butter dish at breakfast. By Easter, three more residents had gone.

  ‘Why are you doing all this?’ Catherine cried at her mother.

  ‘Doing what?’ Kate sniggered like a child.

  ‘Picking on the residents. They’ve done nothing to you.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  Catherine wanted to shake her till her teeth rattled, but did not trust herself to touch her.

  ‘We’ll have no business left if you don’t stop your carry-on.’

  Kate grew openly abusive to Catherine in front of the household.

  ‘A bossy little bitch she was as a bairn,’ Kate announced in the dining room one day when Catherine had asked her to fill up the salt. ‘And she’s just the same - for all her posh ways. I could tell you a few tales about our Kitty that would make your hair stand on end.’

  Bridie intervened. ‘Kate, the guests are waiting for the salt. You can keep your tales for another time.’ She steered Kate towards the door.

  ‘Gerr-off us,’ Kate snarled, turning on her. ‘You’re just as bad. Dirty, filthy things you get up to—’

  Bridie shoved her through the door and banged it shut behind them. Kate’s muffled shouting and swearing could still be heard, as Bridie dragged her down the corridor. Catherine was left, puce-faced with humiliation, not knowing what to say.

  The major cleared his throat. ‘Soup doesn’t need salt. Perfectly good as it is.’ He bent to eat. Catherine felt tears prick her eyes as she shot him a grateful look. After an awkward pause, the others began eating.

  Mealtimes became a battleground and Catherine dreaded them, not knowing what prank her mother would try, or what foul-mouthed ranting would ruin the conversation. She was a bundle of taut nerves during the day, but the long nights were even worse. She could not sleep, tossing and turning in the bed. Although there were now spare bedrooms, Catherine could not face the dark on her own. She was plagued with fearful memories of long ago: the hurtful teasing of playmates, her grandfather wielding the fire poker, Kate beating her for playing at the forbidden Slake. In the depth of the night she dwelled on her failure with men. You ‘re a bastard inside and out! - the words of a neighbour rang in her head again and again. That was why men did not want her. She was tainted, unworthy. She would always be Kate’s unwanted child.

  When Catherine did fall asleep, she was caught in a web of recurring nightmares. The black-hooded priest was always walking towards her, about to envelop her in his darkness, never showing his face. In the dream, she escaped into a room that turned out to be the old bedroom at William Black Street. Kate was in the bed, laughing at her. The noise would give them away. She picked up the pillow and covered Kate’s face, trying to stifle the laughter, just for a minute. She kept pressing on the pillow, but the tall black figure always found her. She s dead, dead, his voice would echo. Then she was sobbing by a corpse laid out in the parlour, fluids dripping from the trestle into a bucket. Terrified and alone, Catherine dared herself to look at the face. But it wasn’t Kate, it was Grandma Rose.

  Catherine woke from these nightmares crying out and bathed in sweat. Bridie grew tired of being woken and trying to soothe her.

  ‘Perhaps you should see the doctor,’ Bridie yawned in exhaustion. ‘You’re worn out - we both are.’

  ‘And tell him what? That I dream about smothering me mother with a pillow!’

  ‘Well, if she’s the cause of all this, it’s time she went. I’ve lost all patience with the woman. She throws our help back in our faces. It’s as if she’s daring us to put her out.’

  Catherine buried her face in her hands. Bridie was right. Kate seemed constantly to be spoiling for a fight. Catherine was fraught with trying to avoid one, bottling up her anger like steam in a pressure-cooker. What really frightened her was the growing urge inside to harm Kate, to unleash that anger. What kind of appalling person was she?

  It was the shame that engulfed her after such dreaming that made Catherine carry on putting up with Kate’s increasing madness.

  Early summer came and the only residents left were the major, Mrs Fairy and Dorothy, who seemed impervious to practical joking. In desperation, Catherine and Bridie went round the local hotels and asked if they had any overflow of customers. She put up a notice on the church board and in shop windows.

  A trickle of summer vis
itors came, but none of them stayed more than a few days. The beds were not made properly, the hot water ran cold, the puddings tasted salty or the soups sweet. Then a French woman came to stay on a painting holiday.

  She was charming and cultured, and Catherine took to her at once. After the evening meal they would sit in the conservatory and talk about books, Catherine trying out her rudimentary French that she had learnt in her Harton days. Madame Clevy introduced her to French writers such as Voltaire and Flaubert, lending her books in translation. She could play tennis and it spurred Catherine on to cut the lawn and hold a tennis party, inviting friends from the club.

  All that sunny Saturday afternoon they played in the secluded garden at The Hurst, and sat about on rugs or lounged in deck chairs. Kate came and went, puffing in the heat and joking with guests. Catherine was pleased to see her making an effort to be friendly.

  At tea time, Catherine went inside to carry out a tray of drinks.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Madame Clevy insisted, and followed her into the kitchen.

  The door was open into the butler’s pantry. Kate was swigging from a bottle. Catherine froze. Her mother saw them, calmly put the stopper back in and placed it under the sink with the cleaning materials.

  She came out swaggering. ‘Well, well, caught you both together, haven’t I? Kitty and her little French sweetheart.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Madame Clevy looked puzzled.

  Kate lurched towards them. Catherine caught a strong whiff of spirits.

  ‘Wanted a little bit of a kiss and cuddle in the pantry, eh?’ Kate cackled.

  ‘Shut up!’ Catherine ordered, blushing hotly.

  ‘Well, you’re wasting your time, madame,’ Kate said loudly. ‘She’s already spoken for. Bridie’s her little companion. Lady in the bedchamber.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Catherine hissed. She took the French woman by the elbow and pulled her towards the door. ‘I’m so sorry, she’s not herself.’

  ‘Drunk, you mean?’ Kate came after them, grabbing at Catherine. ‘Yes, I am. It’s me only pleasure in this bloody place! Too busy with your fancy friends to care about me. Never cared about me. I might as well be dead, for all the notice you take. Hate me, don’t you? Don’t you?’ she screamed.