Jarrow Trilogy 03 - Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Christmas in the Cooksons’ small terraced house passed quickly enough and Tom’s mother did her best to make Catherine feel one of the family. Catherine stood in the cramped kitchen peeling potatoes, half listening to the chatter of Tom’s sisters, both of whom were courting. One brother was away in the navy - Egypt, they thought. The youngest was out kicking a ball in the wet back lane.

  Tom kept peering in anxiously to see if she was all right. Catherine relaxed and ate more than she had in weeks, grateful for their friendly warmth. The small glass of sherry, specially hoarded for the occasion, made her light-headed and comfortably detached. After lunch she went to lie down while Tom went for a walk with his sisters.

  When Catherine got up she could hear voices and laughter downstairs. His mother had mentioned some cousins were calling for tea to see them. She walked in and was halfway across the room to Tom when she stopped.

  A dark-haired young woman was sitting by the fire, joggling a baby on her knee. The baby was gazing about with large eyes, a fist in his mouth, dribbling and making little noises. Catherine was transfixed.

  ‘This is cousin Betty,’ Tom’s mother said, ‘and little Winston. Come and sit down, Kitty.’

  The young cousin smiled. The only empty seat was next to her. Catherine looked at Tom in panic. He smiled at her tensely. She went and sat down, shrinking into her seat, heart pounding. The room was overpoweringly stuffy, her palms sweaty.

  The conversation resumed. It was all about baby Winston, what a good appetite he had and how he was nearly sitting up by himself. One of the sisters offered Catherine a cup of tea. She nodded, feeling faint.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to have a hold of the baby first?’ the senior Mrs Cookson asked.

  Catherine gawped. She could not mean it. But Tom’s mother was smiling at her in encouragement and nodding.

  ‘Course you can,’ Betty said, holding the baby out to her. Winston sensed the handing over and began to grizzle. Betty joggled him up and down and waited for Catherine to take him.

  She sat paralysed. The thought of touching the child made bile flood her throat. She swallowed and tried to speak. Everyone was looking at her now, willing her to hold the baby. What did they think? That nursing someone else’s baby boy would make up for the absence of her own?

  What torture! No one had made any mention of David, not one word. Now they were behaving as if she and Tom had never had a baby at all. How could they?

  ‘No, I don’t want to . . .’ she mumbled.

  As she sat frozen, Tom abruptly stepped forward.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ he said, fumbling for the boy. He took the baby gingerly, as if he were made of porcelain. Gripping him awkwardly to his chest, Winston instantly began to cry.

  ‘Rock him,’ Tom’s mother said. ‘They like movement.’

  ‘He likes to look over your shoulder,’ Betty advised.

  Winston bawled louder. The noise seared Catherine like a branding iron. They had never heard David cry. She would have given the world to hear it. It was more than she could bear, watching Tom holding the baby, struggling to stop the wailing.

  She sprang out of her seat and rushed for the door, knocking over someone’s cup of tea on the carpet.

  ‘Sorry,’ she gabbled, but did not stop. She raced from the room.

  Behind, she could hear Mrs Cookson say in an offended voice, ‘There was no need for that. Thought it might help the girl to have a little cuddle.’

  Catherine fled out of the house. It was already dark outside and she stumbled around in the pitch-black. Tom found her at the end of the street, shivering and weeping in a boarded-up doorway.

  ‘H-how could you h-hold him?’ she accused. ‘And your m-mother - so cruel!’

  She tried to shake him off when he put an arm around her. But he persisted.

  ‘She thought she was helping - she doesn’t understand.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ Catherine said bitterly. ‘Nobody does.’

  ‘I do,’ Tom said gently.

  Catherine said hotly, ‘No you don’t - or you wouldn’t have been able to touch Winston.’

  Tom dropped his hold. She could not see his expression but saw him stiffen.

  ‘Do you think I wanted to?’ he demanded. ‘I dreaded it as much as you - but I took him so you didn’t have to. I did it for you, Kitty, no one else. I’d do anything to make things better, make you smile again. You’ve no idea how lonely it’s been.’

  Catherine lashed out. ‘Lonely for you! You’ve got your job, your colleagues, your precious boys. What have I got? Nothing! Just emptiness - a big gaping hole - and arms that ache ‘cos I’ve got no baby to hold! You’ve no idea how that feels.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Tom cried, seizing hold of her. ‘You’re not the only one suffering. I miss him every waking minute. I think of him all the time - what he might have looked like at two, three, twenty-three. I imagine him sitting at the back of my class, putting his hand up to answer a question, gazing at me through spectacles like mine.’ His voice trembled. ‘I lie awake at night in our bed and can’t sleep, because I can’t get the picture out of my mind of you holding him in that very same bed.’

  Catherine gasped in pain. She clutched at him.

  ‘Say it,’ she whispered, ‘say his name. Call him by his name.’

  A sob caught in Tom’s throat. ‘David,’ he rasped, ‘David.

  Instantly their arms went round each other.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine cried. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  They clung together in the icy drizzle, weeping. Gradually, the pain that oppressed them eased a little in each other’s arms.

  ***

  Back in St Albans, one cold January day, Catherine set out for the cemetery where she believed David was buried. She had badgered the priest and the parish for information. It was starting to snow and the day was darkening though it was just past noon.

  She roamed around the large graveyard, glancing at the headstones.

  There would be nothing to mark her baby’s grave. He would have been bundled into a parish grave like a pauper. Still, she could not rest until she knew under which mound of black earth he lay.

  Eventually she came across the sexton, who was chatting to one of the gravediggers. Catherine gave them the rough date of burial. ‘A stillborn boy. Cookson. Father Shay said he was here.’ The two men looked at her in surprise. They fell silent while they thought about it. The sexton shook his head.

  ‘There’s been a few babies from the workhouse . . .’

  ‘No,’ Catherine was adamant, ‘he wasn’t one of those.’

  ‘I remember,’ the gravedigger suddenly said, ‘tiny baby in early December. Sure the name was Cookson.’

  Catherine’s heart thumped. ‘Do you remember where he was put?’ The man nodded. ‘Yes, over there. We buried him along with an old woman from the workhouse. Remember thinking, well at least he’s got company, poor little mite.’

  Catherine’s eyes stung with tears. ‘Can you show me?’

  The gravedigger took her to an unmarked grave, touched her shoulder and left her alone.

  Catherine squatted down and fingered the frozen earth under its thin blanket of snow. She was strangely comforted to think of David being laid beside an elderly woman; a surrogate grandmother. A Rose McMullen to cradle him in death. He would never be alone.

  When the spring came, she would return and put flowers here for the two of them. Catherine stood up, stiff and cold in the raw air and walked away.

  Halfway home, on an impulse, she turned in to the library. For the rest of the afternoon she sat in its warmth and read a history book. When it was time to leave, she spotted a notice for drawing lessons. After a moment’s hesitation, she wrote down the details. Somehow, she would find a way out of the tunnel of grief that entombed her.

  Today was the first day she had glimpsed a chink of light.

  Chapter 48

  ‘It’s marvellous,’ Tom said in admiration when Catherine showed him her sketch
of St Alban’s cathedral. ‘The texture of the stone - the detail - it’s so alive.’

  She smiled at him in triumph. The life classes at the art school had not lasted long. She had felt inferior to the young students, and unable to draw people. Her attempt to draw a small child to illustrate one of her short stories had ended in failure, but she had an eye for intricate detail. Catherine’s charcoal sketches of buildings were good and she was proud at being self-taught.

  Tom looked at her fondly. ‘If only you’d had the chance I’ve had - won a scholarship to grammar school and had the best of teachers. You’ve so much talent.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘And you look at me through rose-tinted spectacles.’

  ‘Maybe after the war you could have a proper training,’ he enthused. ‘You must keep it up, Kitty.’

  Tom was quick to boast of Catherine’s new-found ability to his colleagues and made her show her sketches when they came to the house. Even Mr Forbes was impressed.

  ‘You could have these printed up as Christmas cards,’ he suggested, ‘sell them round the town.’

  Catherine was entranced by the idea and heady from the English teacher’s approval. Recklessly, she asked him to take a look at some of her short stories too.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you’d read some of them - see if they’re fit for publication. I was thinking of illustrating one or two.’

  Mr Forbes showed surprise but agreed to take them away to read over the summer holidays.

  Then Tom received his call-up papers and Catherine was thrown into panic. He was to enlist with the RAF. Several tense days followed with Catherine imagining him being sent abroad to train. She’d heard of men going to South Africa or Canada. How could she possibly cope here on her own? And flying was the most dangerous of occupations.

  Tom came home despondent. ‘I failed the medical. I’ll get a desk job.’

  Catherine flung her arms around him in relief. ‘Thank the saints!’

  ‘It’s hardly heroic,’ he said glumly, unhooking her arms.

  ‘Maybe not - but you’ll still be needed, whatever it is. And I’m coming with you, even if it’s John O’Groats.’

  They spent the school holiday going on walks and picnics, visiting the Cooksons and packing up their flat. Tom was appointed an instructor and left for his first post in Leicester. Catherine was to follow and find lodgings once his initial training was over. Just before she left, a parcel arrived returning her notebooks.

  Eagerly, she unfolded the enclosed letter from Mr Forbes. It was brief and brutal in its advice. The stories were so badly written, so ungrammatical that they were virtually unreadable. It would be most unwise to send them to a publisher. Art was another matter. She might certainly have a future there - and one that could fit in with her husband’s vocation. He wished them both the best of luck.

  Catherine crumpled up the letter in disgust. How dare he pour such scorn on her work! Tom thought her stories were good. But then Tom was hopelessly biased and would say anything to keep her happy. Perhaps her stories were unpublishable. She looked accusingly at the pile of dog-eared exercise books. They would only take up room in her suitcase and be shoved in another cupboard to lie unread.

  Tight-lipped, Catherine began tearing up the books and throwing them into the empty fire grate. She lit a match and put a taper to the mass of paper. Grimly, she watched several years of work disappear in a roar of flame and turn quickly to hot ashes. Why did she need to escape into a fantastical world of lords and ladies? She had Tom and her art. She would have to be content with the real world and the adventure of starting again in a new place.

  It was not long before Tom was posted to Lincolnshire. Catherine packed up their belongings once more and followed. All she could find was a tiny bedsitting room at the back of a terraced house in Sleaford. The landlady was mean, cutting off the electricity at nine in the evening through the winter and rationing the toilet paper. To Catherine’s embarrassment, she had to walk through the kitchen where the family congregated to get to the lavatory. They always stopped talking and stared at her when she went, so she would wait until she was desperate.

  But her urge to go grew more frequent and she soon suspected why. With long winter nights in a darkened room, she and Tom had resumed lovemaking. The more practice they had, the more pleasurable she found it.

  The spring and early summer brought fresh bombing raids over London and the South-East, and a new campaign was launched to get women out of their homes and into factories to help with the war effort.

  ‘It can’t be me this year,’ she told Tom bashfully in June. ‘I think I’m expecting again.’

  He hugged her in joy.

  ‘I was hoping!’ he admitted, and kissed her tenderly.

  Cautiously, they began to make plans about moving to bigger lodgings once the baby came. By the end of the summer, Catherine allowed herself to hope that this time all would go well. She started writing children’s stories again and short verse.

  As the days began to shorten, Tom came home to say he was being posted to Hereford, on the other side of the country.

  ‘It’s near Wales,’ he said, ‘supposed to be a lovely cathedral town. The camp is a few miles out - but I can cycle. Be a nice place to bring up a family.’

  Catherine put on a show of being pleased, but was secretly dismayed at yet another move. She felt tired just thinking of it, packing up and having to find new accommodation. She hated the thought of being without Tom, even for a short time.

  There was no time to dwell on it, for Tom had to catch a train four days later. Catherine waved him away at the station and walked home feeling bereft and ill at ease.

  The next day she woke to find the bed sheets soaked in blood. In the first moments of disbelief she thought she must have cut herself, but there was no pain. In a panic, she rushed for the landlady, who was preparing to go on holiday.

  ‘Will you ring for the doctor,’ Catherine pleaded, feeling faint. She saw the woman’s reluctance. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

  The doctor was called. ‘You’re probably miscarrying. All you can do is stay in bed and lie still. Nature will work its course.’

  Catherine stared at him numbly. ‘You mean I’ll lose the baby?’

  He shrugged. ‘It looks likely. Is there anyone I can contact for you?’

  Catherine’s ears rang as if she was hearing his words in a dream. A terrible, nightmarish dream.

  ‘My husband,’ she whispered. ‘He’s gone to RAF Madley. I don’t know how to reach him.’

  ‘Maybe best to see what happens first,’ the doctor suggested. ‘I’ll call round in the morning.’

  She sank back, consumed with fear, listening to the doctor telling the landlady.

  ‘I can’t nurse her,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m going on holiday tomorrow.’

  Catherine closed her eyes and wept as quietly as she could. The night was interminable. She hardly dared move, but even lying still she could feel herself haemorrhaging. In the dark hours, stabbing pains increased as her hopes died. The next day, the doctor confirmed her worst fears. She had miscarried.

  ‘But I still feel like it’s there,’ Catherine sobbed. ‘I’m still in pain.’

  He examined her again. ‘You’ll need to go to hospital for an operation. Not all of the placenta has come away. I’ll arrange an ambulance.’

  Catherine was ferried to Grantham hospital and put into blissful oblivion by a general anaesthetic. She woke to the sound of babies crying and for one disorientating moment could remember nothing of what had happened. Then it came flooding back in an all-consuming wave of pain. Their second baby was gone.

  A nurse came to tell her that they had tried to contact her husband, but had not been able to get through.

  ‘Good,’ Catherine said miserably. She didn’t want him to see her like this, didn’t want him to get the news down a crackly telephone line, hurrying between classes. ‘I’ll tell him myself.’

  Weak and grief-stricken though she wa
s, Catherine could not bear to stay in the busy hospital within earshot of the maternity ward. She discharged herself against the wishes of the doctors. All that drove her on was the thought of getting to Hereford as quickly as possible and joining Tom.

  The moment he saw her face at the station, he knew. She fell into his arms and wept. Tom struggled to find words of comfort, but could hardly speak. It was too cruel for it to happen all over again.

  They found rooms in the market town, and for Tom’s sake, Catherine tried to rally her broken spirits. But she spent long lonely hours once more questioning why such a tragedy should have befallen them. She went back to the Catholic Church. Why, she asked the local priest, had she lost two babies?

  ‘Have you ever thought it’s God’s punishment for marrying out of the faith?’ he asked her sternly.

  Catherine was deeply wounded by the accusation and could not rid her mind of it.

  ‘What sort of God would do that?’ she cried at Tom. ‘Not a loving God!’

  ‘It’s irrational,’ Tom said impatiently, furious at the priest for his wife’s distress. ‘What nonsense to think God would kill our babies out of spite. You’re not to take any notice of such superstitious dogma.’

  Catherine knew he was right, yet part of her responded in fear to the priest’s censure. If she was good from now on, went to confession and attended church regularly, she might earn forgiveness. She might win the chance of another child. She struggled to reconcile these two warring parts of her. At home with Tom, she was questioning and critical of many aspects of Catholicism. On Sundays she went to Mass and found her senses stirred by the beauty and mystery of the service, at home with its unchanging familiarity.

  She made friends with Sister Teresa from the local convent. They would walk in the enclosed garden under the bare trees and talk.

  ‘ “Come to me all you who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest”,’ the nun quoted. ‘Now they’re not the words of a cruel God, are they?’