Jarrow Trilogy 03 - Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Catherine shook her off, her heart thudding in agitation. ‘Keep away from me! Don’t you dare come back out in such a state, or I’ll never forgive you.’

  She hurried away, stuttering apologies to Madame Clevy. Outside, Bridie saw at once she was upset.

  ‘Is it Kate?’ she asked. Catherine nodded.

  ‘Let me deal with her,’ Bridie said, and went inside.

  Ten minutes later, she reappeared with the tea tray, smiling. Passing Catherine she murmured, ‘Locked her in the pantry.’

  Catherine gasped. Kate was probably drinking herself unconscious. Insides knotting, Catherine forced a smile and set about pouring tea. The afternoon was ruined and she could not wait for people to leave, fearful of Kate breaking out and making a scene.

  Bridie cut the cherry cake and handed it round. Madame Clevy took a bite, then cried out. She held her jaw.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘Something hard - my tooth,’ she gabbled.

  Catherine grabbed her plate and pulled something out of the cake. It was a small hammer from the piano.

  ‘How on earth did that get there?’ said Joyce, one of her tennis friends.

  Catherine knew if she answered she would burst into tears. Her mother was spiteful and hateful! She would not stop until she had driven away all her lodgers, all her friends. It was the final straw.

  She banged down the plate and strode back into the house. She was going to give Kate such an earful! She would kick her out on to the street, there and then. To hell with what the neighbours thought! Her mother could beg in the gutter, for all she cared.

  As she marched into the kitchen, she heard Bridie hurrying behind her.

  ‘Catherine, don’t do anything hasty—’

  ‘Just try and stop me,’ Catherine cried.

  She rushed to the pantry, turned the key and wrenched the door open. Kate was sprawled on the floor, an empty bottle lying beside her. She was deadly pale and motionless. Fear clawed at Catherine’s stomach.

  ‘Is she breathing?’ Bridie whispered.

  Catherine stood, too paralysed to move. Bridie pushed her aside and bent down, putting an ear to Kate’s mouth. A long moment passed. Don ‘t let her die like this!

  ‘She’s breathing, but it’s shallow,’ Bridie said at last. ‘Best call out the doctor.’

  Catherine let out a long breath.

  Bridie picked up the bottle and sniffed it. ‘Mary Mother! She’s been drinking meths.’

  Catherine stared at the crumpled body, the greying, dishevelled hair across a once-pretty face. All the fury and fear of moments before dissolved.

  ‘Oh, Kate,’ she whispered, bending to touch her hair. ‘Oh, our Kate!’

  Chapter 38

  Kate was nursed in bed for several days. The doctor told her she might have done irreparable harm to her stomach and liver from her drinking. Time would tell. When Kate asked if she could have a tot of brandy for medicinal purposes, Catherine was filled with disgust. Her mother seemed bent on self-destruction. But she would not allow Kate to wreck life at The Hurst too.

  Once Kate was up and about again, meddling in the running of the household, Catherine screwed up her courage to confront her.

  ‘I’m making arrangements for you to live elsewhere. The tenants in our old maisonette are moving out at the end of the month. You can move back there.’

  Kate gawped at her in disbelief. ‘You’re hoying me out?’

  Catherine swallowed. ‘I’m providing you with a roof over your head. It’s more than you deserve after all this carry-on.’

  ‘All on me own?’ Kate said in a fluster. ‘How will I manage?’

  ‘By taking in your own lodgers. I’ve talked it over with Bridie. We’re getting a joiner to put in a couple of false walls so you can have extra rooms. You’ll have to pay your own way; I can’t afford to run two places. Specially with business so bad at The Hurst,’ Catherine added pointedly.

  Kate said stubbornly, ‘And what if I refuse to go?’

  Catherine held her look. ‘Then you’ll have to go back north. I’m not having you living at The Hurst any longer.’

  Kate stormed out of the room.

  Later, she was contrite and begged Catherine to let her stay. ‘I never meant any of those things I said about you and Bridie. I don’t believe them - I just can’t bear you seeing her as your mam, and not me!’ But, encouraged by Bridie, Catherine held firm and went ahead with the alterations to the flat in Laurel Street. In September, she scraped enough money together to cover the first month’s bills and placed an advertisement in the newspaper for custom.

  When the first two enquirers paid over a week’s rent, Catherine ordered her mother to pack.

  ‘I’ll see her settled in,’ Bridie insisted. ‘I don’t trust you not to change your mind at the last minute. A few tears from Kate and you’ll have her back to The Hurst in a trice.’

  So Catherine and Kate exchanged a strained goodbye in the kitchen. Catherine went off to work and felt miserable all day, haunted by her mother’s reproachful look. She worried whether Kate had thrown a tantrum with Bridie about going and whether her lodgers had turned up.

  On her return, Bridie assured her. ‘She’s fine and dandy. Putting on a show for the new boarders. Long may it last.’

  Catherine was full of doubt that it would. Each day she dreaded finding that Kate had returned, drunk and in debt and demanding her ungrateful daughter to take her in. But the days passed and she did not hear from her.

  ‘Maybe I should go down and see how she’s managing,’ Catherine fretted.

  ‘Leave her be,’ Bridie said impatiently. ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then stop fussing. Kate’ll manage. She’ll do it just to spite you.’

  At the end of the month, Catherine came home from work to find Bridie grinning like a Cheshire cat at the kitchen table. She pushed an envelope towards her.

  ‘Have a look in there.’

  Inside were two ten-shilling notes and a scrawled message: ‘Here’s the money I had a lend of. I have got four lodgers. Hope you are well. Kate.’

  Catherine looked over in amazement. ‘She’s doing better than we are!’

  Bridie laughed. ‘Didn’t I tell you? She’s out to prove herself to you. So you can stop worrying - you’ve done the right thing by her.’

  Catherine smiled in relief. ‘Not that she’ll see it that way.’

  Bridie came over and hugged her. ‘Oh, but isn’t it grand without her? Just you, me and Maisie. Promise me you’ll not take her back. I couldn’t bear to see you fading away with the worry again.’

  ‘Oh, I promise,’ Catherine said. ‘Never again.’

  ***

  Winter came, and Catherine and Bridie gradually built up the numbers at The Hurst once more. The roof needed constant repairs and it was a struggle to keep the damp and mould at bay during the cold wet months. The house devoured money like an insatiable beast, and often Catherine wondered why she had bought such a monstrous place.

  ‘You worry too much about things,’ Bridie would chide.

  ‘And you don’t worry enough,’ Catherine retorted on discovering a new patch of crumbling wall in the tower room.

  Bridie, she discovered, was as haphazard in her housekeeping as Kate. She never seemed to be able to keep within the weekly budget, and dismissed Catherine’s attempts to curb her spending with a shrug and a laugh as if it were a joke. To her friend’s annoyance, Catherine offered the loyal Mrs Fairy free board and lodging if she would help with the cooking and housekeeping.

  ‘I can manage fine without that woman huffing and puffing down my neck!’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased with the extra help,’ Catherine said.

  ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’ Bridie reproached.

  ‘It’s too big a job for you to run everything on your own. And Mrs Fairy’s good with Maisie.’

  Bridie was moody for weeks afterwards and C
atherine had to tread carefully. Casual comments could be taken as criticism; the slightest attention to Mrs Fairy was seen as favouritism. But at least she did not have to worry about her unstable mother screaming in front of the guests or causing chaos. She was so relieved that the battles with Kate were over that the odd tiff with Bridie was nothing in comparison.

  Months went by without Catherine seeing or hearing from her mother. The lease on the maisonette had been assigned over to Kate, and Catherine took the lack of news to mean that her mother was coping.

  ‘Bad news travels fast,’ Bridie reminded her. ‘If she wants you she knows where to find you.’

  So, with no encouragement from Bridie, Catherine did not make an effort to keep in contact.

  As Christmas approached and Catherine wondered what to do about Kate, Bridie said, ‘She’ll have Davie for company. Spare us a Christmas like last year!’

  Catherine shuddered to think of it. Instead, she sent her mother money in a card. It made her feel less guilty at having a quiet Christmas at The Hurst. There was no sign of Kate at Mass, but a note came in the New Year to wish her well.

  It was well into 1935 before she had further news of her mother.

  ‘Didn’t I run into her down on the seafront buying fish!’ Bridie reported. ‘Maisie saw her first. Weight’s dropped off her.’

  Catherine’s stomach twisted. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Right as rain,’ Bridie assured. ‘Got six lodgers and proud of it.’

  ‘Good,’ Catherine said, her throat feeling tight.

  ‘Asking after you,’ Bridie continued. ‘Says to come for your tea one night. Bring Maisie - have a game of snap. I told her how busy you were and not to expect it.’

  Catherine was grateful. She did not want to visit. She was happy to think that her mother was managing without her but did not want to see her. She had striven hard for peace of mind since the previous terrible year. It had completely drained her of emotion. Once again there was equilibrium in her life. To re-establish contact with Kate would destroy all that.

  Catherine said, ‘Maisie could go on her own - or you could take her.’

  Bridie shrugged and the subject was dropped.

  With spring blossom and the fresh green of early summer leaves, Catherine’s spirits rose. She felt filled with a new energy and optimism. Whenever she had doubts about The Hurst, she only had to go out into its garden to chase them away. She would walk among its trees, touching the rough bark and stand under their shade, mesmerised by the flickering, filtering light. Breathing in the scent of flowers and damp grass after a shower was better than any expensive perfume. For snatched moments, Catherine felt more at peace there than at any time in her life.

  But such times were rare, for she continued to work hard at the laundry and when she came back home, the chores of the boarding house went on until bedtime. As summer wore on, all her plans to hold tennis parties unravelled. There never seemed enough time. She and Bridie played together on occasional Saturday afternoons, challenging some of the lodgers to games of doubles.

  Catherine was surprised Bridie did not seem to mind the lack of social contact.

  ‘It must be dull for you, being stuck here all week long,’ Catherine said. ‘We should make more effort to get out.’

  Bridie pinched her cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me - I love it here. I’ve got you and Maisie and a beautiful home. What more could I want?’

  Still, as the year waned, Catherine felt an increasing need for contact outside the enclosed world of laundry and boarding house. She yearned for more time for reading and learning. She almost envied those far-off days at Harton when she had spent her free time devouring books from the library. When was the last time she had spent a whole evening reading?

  The days shortened and they could no longer play tennis or sit in the garden of an evening. Confined to the house in bad weather, Bridie and Mrs Fairy began to bicker again and pour out their grievances to Catherine on her return from work. Each strove to win control in the kitchen.

  One evening, when Catherine was returning from work wondering what petty wrangling she would find, she spotted a poster in a newsagent’s window. Fencing lessons. She stopped and studied it. One hour a week at a gym in Harcourt Street. For an instant she held a ridiculous thought of herself wielding a sword like one of the Three Musketeers. Madame Clevy had introduced her to the novel by Dumas and she had been captivated by the swashbuckling tale.

  She laughed at the idea, dismissed it and walked home. That night Bridie was in a mood over a burnt cheese sauce that had been left on the stove and ruined a pan. She blamed Mrs Fairy, who indignantly denied it.

  ‘You can’t leave a sauce and go off for a bath,’ the old cook scolded.

  ‘I left it on the hearth,’ Bridie cried.

  ‘You left it on top.’

  ‘Oh, go boil your head in a bucket!’ Bridie flounced out and gave no further help with the evening meal.

  The following day Catherine went down to the gym in Harcourt Street and signed up for fencing lessons with a wiry ex-actor called Mr Gascoigne. Bridie was flabbergasted.

  ‘Fencing? You mean sword fighting?’

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine laughed at her impulsiveness.

  ‘But why?’

  Catherine shrugged. She could hardly tell her it was to vent her irritation at the squabbling between the women at The Hurst. ‘It’ll keep me fit and trim.’

  ‘There’s not an ounce of spare flesh on you, girl,’ Bridie exclaimed. ‘And who is this Mr Gascoigne? He might be one of these men you hear about who lure young women up to their rooms and murder them!’

  Catherine laughed dismissively, ‘He’s as small as a mouse - I’d get the better of him any day.’

  After Catherine had been for a couple of weeks and come to no harm, Bridie accepted the situation.

  ‘Suppose it’ll come in handy if Kate ever comes after you with a carving knife,’ she joked bleakly.

  Catherine laughed uncomfortably. She did not like to admit that she rid herself of her pent-up aggression against Kate when she parried and lunged for her opponent. But she grew to enjoy her weekly sessions at the gym with the nimble and talkative tutor, and the assortment of other fencers. For an hour a week she concentrated on something physical, channelling her frustrations into the point of her epee and emptying her mind of everything else.

  Harcourt Street was towards the sea front and, walking home, Catherine passed near the end of Laurel Street. One December night when the moon was so bright it lit the rooftops in silvery light, Catherine was gripped by a powerful memory. She and Kate had been walking up the bank to East Jarrow after a rare day out on a charabanc trip, when suddenly her mother had grabbed her hand.

  ‘Haway, let’s race the moon!’ Kate had cried, and yanked her along so fast that her feet had left the ground as if she were flying. It was so unexpected and exhilarating, that for a moment she had been overwhelmed by a surge of love.

  Catherine stopped in the cold air and gasped for breath. She had not thought of the incident for years. Kate had spoken with such warmth about her real father, William Fawcett, playing the same game when she was small, that Catherine had been emboldened to ask about her own mysterious father. It had spoilt the moment. Kate had grown angry and told her never to mention him again. He was never coming back. He was dead.

  Catherine’s heart hammered at the bitter-sweet memory; one instant so close, the next at loggerheads. She looked up at the dazzling moon and it seemed to flood her with courage. Without giving herself time to think it over, she turned abruptly right and retraced her steps to her mother’s maisonette.

  Kate gasped when she opened the door. ‘You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?’ Catherine’s courage withered at the sarcasm, but Kate quickly pulled her in. ‘Don’t stand there letting all the heat out - haway in.’

  She led her into the kitchen. Somewhere a radio was playing. Washing was strewn overhead, the room smelt of pies and damp clothes, but so
mehow it was homely.

  ‘Can’t stop long,’ Catherine said awkwardly.

  Kate poured her out a stewed cup of tea from the pot. ‘Sit down, lass, you’re makin’ me nervous.’

  Catherine sipped gingerly. She had forgotten how strong Kate made it.

  ‘Business going all right?’

  ‘Champion,’ Kate said with a defiant look. ‘I hear you’re employing Mrs Fairy these days. Saw her at the market - full of it, she was. Bet that doesn’t suit Bridie.’

  Catherine said, ‘They get on fine.’

  Kate snorted and changed the subject. She chattered on about her own lodgers and about Davie, who had sent her a postcard from Cape Town.

  ‘He’ll not be back till next year,’ Kate said matter-of-factly. ‘And you, lass, what have you been doing?’

  ‘Just the same,’ Catherine said, standing up. Then she added, ‘I’ve taken up fencing.’

  ‘What do you mean, fencing?’ Kate looked baffled.

  ‘Epee - sword play.’

  Kate burst into laughter. ‘Eeh, hinny, I thought you meant mending folks’s garden fences!’

  Catherine could not help smiling as she made for the door. Kate followed her.

  ‘Fencing. Fancy that.’

  A tall man with a towel round his shoulders emerged from the bathroom. Quick as a flash, Kate said, ‘Mr Soulsby, this is my daughter, Kitty. She’s a champion fencer, don’t you know?’

  The man gave a startled nod in Catherine’s direction and bolted down the corridor.

  ‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Catherine said in embarrassment. ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘Will be one day. Come again, won’t you, lass,’ Kate insisted.

  Catherine promised she would and headed quickly down the stairs. Glancing back at the outside door, she saw her mother still at the stairwell watching her go.

  Catherine hurried home, relieved the ordeal was over, yet strangely glad she had gone. Ten minutes together was probably as much as they could manage without an argument, so she would keep her visits occasional and brief.