Jarrow Trilogy 03 - Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘You never told me who he was,’ Bridie called after her, ‘or where you met him.’

  ‘Tell you later,’ Catherine answered, and quickened her pace.

  She knew from the light thrown on the driveway that her friend watched her till she disappeared from sight. She felt bad for springing such a surprise on Bridie, but it was tinged with excitement at her daring. Why shouldn’t she go out to the pictures with a young man? She couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked her. Bridie and she had gone so often when their friendship was new, and now she missed such outings.

  Tom Cookson was a stranger in Hastings and probably lonely. Once he found friends he wouldn’t need to ask an old spinster like her. She would take advantage of the offer while she could.

  He was waiting for her, dressed in a smart suit and tie, hair smoothed down. On catching sight of her, his serious face broke into a smile and she felt a small flutter inside. He had made an effort for her and she was flattered.

  ‘Bought you chocolates,’ he said bashfully, holding out a box. ‘Mrs McDermott said you liked them.’

  ‘You told Kate you were meeting me?’ Catherine said in alarm.

  ‘Shouldn’t I have?’

  Catherine knew it would cause Kate amusement to think of her thirty-year-old daughter meeting her youthful lodger, but she didn’t care. She would endure teasing from her mother just to see a Carole Lombard film.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she smiled quickly and accepted the chocolates. ‘Thanks, this is a real treat.’

  Tom had bought good seats in the balcony. As they settled in and ate chocolates, they swapped questions. Tom had come straight from university in Oxford into his first job at Hastings Grammar School. He loved his subject. The pupils were great. Essex was where he came from.

  ‘I worked in Essex for a short time,’ Catherine said.

  ‘I know. Your mother said you didn’t like it.’

  Catherine blushed. ‘I wouldn’t say that—’

  ‘Too flat for you northerners,’ Tom suggested.

  ‘Let’s just say, I prefer it here.’

  Tom nodded. ‘So do I.’

  She looked at him in astonishment. ‘But you’ve only just moved here.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘but I can already tell I’m going to be happy.’

  ‘Go on.’ Catherine was intrigued. ‘Give me examples.’

  ‘Walking the Downs - the light on the sea - my job.’ He paused. ‘Getting away from my noisy family - and the snobs at Oxford who look down their noses at scholarship boys.’ He looked at her. ‘I like the people I’ve met.’

  Catherine’s heart quickened. He spoke as she felt. Could it be that he was running away from his past too - forging a new identity in this pleasant coastal town?

  Before she could ask him any more, the lights went down and the Pathé news came on. Catherine froze, a chocolate halfway to her mouth, at the sight of scores of shabbily dressed men marching in the rain behind banners.

  ‘The Jarrow Marchers have reached Bradford, where they enjoyed their first hot bath,’ said the commentary. ‘The mayor turned out to greet them, and donations of food have been pouring in for the footsore men. Two medical students are on hand to treat those blisters and a walking barber to keep them looking trim. They’ve come a long way from home - but they’ve got even further to go before reaching London and handing in their petition to the Prime Minister, Mr Baldwin . . .’

  Catherine put back the chocolate, her appetite soured by the sight of their gaunt faces. If her eyes weren’t blurred with tears she might see one that she recognised - men from the New Buildings or the dock gates. Men so desperate for work that they were prepared to march hundreds of miles to London to shame the government into action. Her people. She was filled with a fierce pride, and yet this news spoilt everything. How could she sit back and enjoy a silly romantic film when she knew the marchers would be bedding down on a hard hall floor, clothes damp and stinking, their hungry families left behind to worry and fend for themselves? She could imagine it all too vividly.

  The main film began, but she was dangerously close to bursting into tears. She might move to the other end of the country but she could never shake off her past. It would always catch up with her when she least expected it.

  Just then, she felt a warm hand cover hers. Tom took her hand and squeezed it gently, as if he guessed her misery. He said nothing, just gave her his shy smile and then turned to watch the film. She let her hand rest in his for several minutes.

  After the film, Tom asked, ‘Can I walk you home?’

  Catherine felt touched. ‘It’s a long time since a lad’s asked me that,’ she smiled. ‘But it’s quite out of your way.’

  ‘I like walking.’

  ‘All right,’ Catherine agreed.

  As they walked through the dark, chilly streets they talked about films, which led on to books. She thought to show off her reading knowledge, only to discover that his was far greater. Not only did he know the classics of English literature, but was well read in philosophy, poetry and drama.

  ‘Didn’t know mathematicians read that much!’ she cried with envy.

  ‘Always had my head buried in a book,’ he said sheepishly, ‘when Mother thought I should’ve been helping with my younger brothers and sisters.’

  ‘You were lucky to have books,’ Catherine said, thinking how she had had to make do with penny comics and the rare book from a lodger.

  Reaching The Hurst gates, Catherine said on impulse, ‘Come inside for a cup of cocoa - warm you up before your trek down the hill.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tom agreed at once.

  Bridie was waiting up for her in the kitchen. She looked startled at Tom’s presence.

  Catherine introduced them, then hurried to boil up some milk.

  ‘So how did you meet?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘Through Mrs McDermott,’ Tom answered. ‘I’m in digs there.’

  Bridie exclaimed, ‘Oh, you must be the schoolboy!; Catherine shot her a look, but she went on, ‘That’s what Catherine calls you. And you a teacher! Still, it must be grand for the boys to have someone near their own age.’

  Tom reddened.

  ‘Don’t listen to her.’ Catherine tried to laugh it off. ‘Bridie can be such a tease.’

  Tom smiled uncertainly. ‘Kitty says you come from Ireland?’

  ‘Oh, Kitty, is it?’ Bridie crowed. ‘And what else has Kitty been saying about me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  Her smile died. ‘Well, that’s a surprise - seeing as we’ve been best of friends for six years or more. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about me - or me about her.’

  The brittle look in her blue eyes made Catherine nervous.

  ‘Tom and I are going to take our cocoa into the sitting room,’ Catherine said, messily stirring the hot drinks. ‘You look tired - there’s no need to wait up any longer.’ She plonked the mugs on a tray with a plate of biscuits and nodded at Tom to follow.

  ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Mrs McKim,’ he said.

  Bridie ignored him. ‘I’ll see you upstairs later, Catherine,’ she called after them.

  Catherine hid her irritation at the woman’s rudeness. Thankfully, the sitting room was empty. Putting on the standard lamp and stoking up the fire, she put the tray down on the hearth and flopped beside it.

  Tom was studying the collection of books in the glass-fronted case.

  ‘Trollope! Have you read the Barsetshire novels?’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘Just the one you can see.’

  ‘I’ll lend them to you,’ he enthused. ‘They’re such a good picture of Anglican life.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m Roman Catholic.’ She looked at him, wondering if she would catch that look of disdain.

  He came over and squatted down beside her, his face thoughtful. ‘My father was a verger - but he died when I was a baby. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like had he lived.’

  Cat
herine held her breath, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘Mother married again. I have a big family and nothing to complain about - but it doesn’t stop me thinking ... I would like to have known him. I feel different from the others.’

  ‘Yes!’ Catherine agreed. ‘Different - that’s it. I’ve a stepfather too. Never knew my real one. It’s like you’re standing in a painting but it’s only half finished - part of it’s missing - and you can never see the full picture no matter how hard you try.’

  ‘Is that why your mother drinks - to try and forget?’

  ‘Drinks?’ Catherine flushed. ‘She doesn’t any more!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Tom said hastily, ‘I shouldn’t have said—’

  Catherine put out a hand quickly and touched him. ‘No, it’s me that’s sorry. Oh, it’s no surprise, but I get so angry. Just when I think she’s off it for good ...! It’s me who’ll have to pick up the pieces again when she drinks herself into debt. She nearly ruined me here—’ She stopped, appalled that she had said so much. Tears stung her eyes. ‘What must you think of me, with a mother like that?’

  Tom took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. ‘I think you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met - so strong and full of life. You’re beautiful and clever and I could go on listening to your voice all night long.’

  Catherine gazed at him in astonishment. What an extraordinary young man he was. Didn’t look like he would say boo to a goose, but could flatter as well as any of the worldly-wise men who had deceived her in the past. Yet she could see from his earnest expression and kind eyes that he meant every word of it.

  Impulsively, she leant towards him and kissed him on the lips. His mouth was firm and warm, and the contact sent a shiver right through her. When she pulled away, she was shaking. Neither of them knew what to say.

  ‘Look, we’ve let the cocoa get cold,’ she said, pushing a mug towards him and hiding behind her own. ‘Tell me more about Trollope.’

  They sat by the fire late into the night, discussing literature and history, arguing about religion and social justice. Tom was a liberal and devoutly Anglican; Catherine believed working people were enslaved by bigotry and ignorance as much as by the bosses.

  ‘There’s no one crueller than the bigot,’ Catherine declared, ‘whether gossiping neighbour or fire-brand priest.’

  ‘But all your priests - even the kind ones - believe Protestants like me are going to Hell.’

  ‘I know, but that doesn’t mean I do.’

  ‘So why do you follow what the priests tell you?’ he challenged.

  ‘Guilt,’ Catherine admitted. ‘I’m not as religious as I was back home - but I can’t stop going. It’s a part of who I am, even though I don’t agree with all they teach.’

  She had never had such a conversation with anyone before, least of all a man. Catherine was excited and stirred by it. There were so many things she wanted to know and discuss. She hid her disappointment when Tom finally stretched his cramped legs and made to leave.

  ‘Can we do this again next Saturday?’ he asked as she showed him out.

  ‘I’d like that,’ Catherine smiled.

  ‘Perhaps we could have tea out before the film?’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’

  It took her a long time that night to get to sleep. Her mind buzzed with their talk.

  In the morning she was exhausted and Bridie critical.

  ‘Don’t know what the guests must think of you, staying up all hours with that boy!’

  ‘He’s not a boy,’ Catherine said irritably.

  ‘He is compared to you. It’s not seemly.’

  ‘We just talked. He’s an interesting man.’

  ‘You don’t want to go getting a reputation,’ Bridie warned darkly.

  Catherine went for a walk to escape. Down at the harbour she watched the waves crashing on to the beach. What would Father John say to her courting an Anglican? What would her grandda have thought? Even Kate might not be best pleased. She felt the sudden weight of tradition pressing down, her mother’s voice telling her not to start something that would only end in trouble or more heartbreak.

  Then she thought of Tom’s deep brown compassionate eyes watching her in the firelight and felt again a tug in her heart. It was worth the risk. Something had flickered into life deep within her the previous evening - something newborn - and she was determined to nurture it.

  Chapter 40

  1937

  Catherine and Tom’s friendship developed quickly. She was impatient for the weekends when they were off work and could meet. Tom had school commitments, including helping with the scouts, so often she was reduced to writing him letters brimming with questions and ideas for them to discuss. To her amazed delight, he seemed just as eager to be in her company, despite the ridicule and jealousy of Bridie and Kate.

  Through the winter they would escape on walks along the cliff paths to Fairlight Glen and its lovers’ seat, or inland to the ruined church of St Helen’s and picnic in the shelter of its overgrown tower. They kissed, but to Catherine’s relief, Tom never pushed her further as other men had tried to do. As spring came, they ventured further afield across the Brede Valley. They talked of the books Tom lent her, of civil war in Spain, of the abdication of the king.

  Catherine was as shocked by King Edward’s sudden departure as most of the country.

  ‘But to give up everything for that Wallis Simpson - to have to leave his country, his family - it’s a terrible business. He had duties to his country. How could he do it?’

  Tom looked at her and said, ‘He loves her and he can’t manage without her. It’s as simple as that.’

  Catherine shook her head vigorously. ‘It’s a rare man gives up all that power and privilege over one woman - and a twice-divorced woman at that! I don’t understand it.’

  ‘I do,’ Tom said quietly.

  She studied him. ‘But everything was against them - his family, the Prime Minister, the Church. How could he stand up to such pressure?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘His need for her was stronger.’

  ‘It won’t last,’ Catherine said, suddenly depressed by the subject. Tom looked away and she wondered if he was thinking about their situation too.

  She had expected opposition to her deepening relationship with Tom, but not the degree of jealousy and spitefulness that their courtship had unleashed. Bridie did all she could to stop her going out; developing sudden headaches and ailments, arranging for the priest to call when she was due to meet Tom or letting jobs pile up and demanding Catherine’s help.

  To Tom’s face she was downright rude, always referring to him as ‘the schoolboy’ and never using his name.

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you that Catherine’s taller?’ she would jibe. ‘Most men would be.’ Or, ‘How much younger are you? Is it six or seven years? She usually likes them older.’

  Tom never rose to her baiting, just answered her with a strained smile. This infuriated Bridie.

  ‘Don’t know what you see in him,’ she fulminated at Catherine late at night. ‘Hardly strings two words together. A puny little man, that’s what he is.’

  ‘He’s a good sportsman,’ Catherine defended, ‘and a good talker - when he’s given half a chance. Why can’t you be civil to him? It doesn’t cost anything.’

  Then Bridie would change tack. ‘Darling girl, don’t get upset. I’m just trying to stop you making a fool of yourself over this little man. He’s not strong enough for you, Catherine. You’re too full of life. Believe me, if I thought he would make you happy, I’d be the first to give you my blessing. And it’s not just me - people are talking.’

  ‘What people?’ Catherine demanded.

  Bridie looked sorrowful. ‘The guests - our friends - they can see you’re not suited. And the ones from church! You know Father John doesn’t approve. And that nun from the convent you like to chat to - she was round here the other day asking questions.’

  ‘Sister Marguerite?’ Catherine asked, ba
ffled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Wanted to know if it was true you were courting a Protestant.’

  ‘How did she know?’ Catherine reddened.

  ‘People talk.’

  ‘Yes, I bet they do,’ Catherine said with a glare. ‘It’s you stirring up trouble, isn’t it? It’s no business of Sister Marguerite’s or the priest’s who I go out with!’

  ‘That’s not how Father John sees it. You’re endangering your mortal soul, carrying on with a Protestant, that’s what he and the nuns at the convent think.’ Bridie held out her arms. ‘Poor darling girl. It’s just your bad luck to fall in love with an Anglican. You could never marry him. You do see that, don’t you?’

  While Bridie’s opposition was relentless at home, Kate was being difficult too. Catherine suspected that Tom did not report half of what went on, but he let slip the odd comment. Kate’s drinking was on the increase again. She had asked him for his rent early and a loan to pay the gas bill. Letters that Catherine had sent had not been received.

  When she went round to Maritime Place, there was an air of neglect. The rooms were dusty and washing-up was piled high in the sink. One time she caught Tom washing his own sheets in the bath.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Catherine stormed into the kitchen to find Kate nursing a cup of tea. ‘Since when have the lodgers had to do their own washing?’

  Kate waved a hand. ‘That fussy little man. Said I’d wash them tomorra.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Friday. You always wash on Mondays,’ Catherine snapped. ‘You’ll lose your business if you carry on like this. And don’t expect me to bail you out again.’

  Kate gave her a bleak unfocused look.

  ‘No, you don’t care what happens to me. You’ll gan off with your fancy boy and leave me to rot. I’ll end up in that workhouse of yours and then you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘So that’s what this is all about - me and Tom? You can’t bear the thought of us being happy. You’d rather have me at your beck and call for ever than see me settled with a decent man!’

  ‘ ‘S not true.’ Kate got up, swaying. ‘Always done what’s best for you. You cannot marry him - he’s not one of us - be a sin. Saving you from makin’ a big mistake.’