THE TYNESIDE SAGAS: Box set of three dramatic and emotional stories: A Handful of Stars, Chasing the Dream and For Love & Glory

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘No,’ Pearl protested.

  ‘It’s true. But one day he’ll thank me for it,’ Jo whispered, and went back to gazing out of the window.

  ***

  The following week, Jo’s spirits rose at the thought of Colin returning from Northern Ireland and of Marilyn coming home from college. It was an emotional reunion with both of them, but her joy at seeing Colin was marred by his criticism of her. He blamed her for the state in which he found his old friend. Mark had lost his job and was spending his time on drinking binges around the town.

  ‘I was looking forward to the weddin’,’ Colin accused her. ‘Why did you call it off after the way he stuck by you? And you and Gordon…! I can’t believe the carry-on.’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Jack ordered. ‘She’s been through enough.’

  ‘Aye, well so’s Mark from what I can see.’ Colin was indignant. ‘You’ve really screwed the lad up, Joanne.’

  When he had gone, Jack tried to excuse his rudeness. ‘Pearl says Brenda’s finished with him since he got back. He’s just a bit sensitive at the moment.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Jo said sadly, ‘he never said. No one told me…’ She realised how isolated she had become.

  Jo found herself excluded from the nights out with her old friends, who were rallying round Mark. Not that she had any appetite for going out. She tried to talk it over with Marilyn, who came round frequently to see Colin. Although Marilyn was more sympathetic, Jo felt there was a distance between them that she could not bridge. Her friend was so full of her time at college, so obviously happy, that Jo did not like to spoil her holiday. As Christmas neared, she noticed how inseparable Colin and Marilyn had become, while Jo herself withdrew more and more into a twilight world of silent mourning.

  The date of the wedding came and went, with no one mentioning it. Pearl took Jo shopping into Newcastle but the packed, brightly lit shops only served to heighten the forlorn emptiness she felt inside. She just wanted to get the festive season over with as quickly and quietly as possible. Then, one afternoon, Martha from the theatre group called round to see her in a hurry.

  ‘We need someone to stand in for the prompter,’ she told her. ‘Dan’s gone down with flu. Will you do it?’

  ‘Course she will,’ Pearl replied before Jo could turn down the request. Jo had lost the confidence to go anywhere on her own, but her aunt chivvied her along. ‘I’ll take over if you get tired,’ Pearl bargained, going with her.

  Later, after the performance, when Jo had managed to prompt without ending in a gibbering heap in the wings, she wondered if Pearl and Martha had plotted the whole thing. She relaxed in their company in the makeshift bar, realising just how much she had missed the theatre these past months since the upheaval of the summer.

  For the rest of the holiday period, Jo came to the theatre and helped out behind the scenes, working long hours to take her mind off grieving for her baby. She found it hard that no one spoke of it, as if she had never had a life growing within her. It was the loneliest feeling in the world and at times she felt as if her depression would overwhelm her while all those about her seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  But it helped to be at the theatre with friends who knew little about the trauma with Mark, save that her engagement had been called off. Losing herself in the make-believe of drama was the best therapy she could find for her wounded heart. At times she found herself dwelling on Mark and wondering how he was coping. She wished she had the courage to go round and see him, try to make up for the harsh words they had thrown at each other. She hated to think that he should be left believing she had not really cared for him. There were moments when she yearned to see him again, and wished herself back to the time when they had been together. Perhaps after Christmas she would go round and see him, put the record straight.

  Jo made an effort on Christmas Day, doing the major share of the cooking and trying to get close to Colin. But she sensed his disapproval and knew that he felt let down by her too. On Boxing Day, he disappeared round to Marilyn’s house without her. Jack and Pearl went to Ivy’s while Jo escaped to the theatre to help with the matinee.

  When she got home that evening, Colin was spread out on the settee with Marilyn snuggled under his arm. They were watching TV with a nearly empty bottle of wine at their feet.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ Marilyn asked, moving over to make room for her.

  ‘Ta, I will,’ Jo said, flopping down on the floor, as Colin did not move his feet.

  ‘Has Pearl told you?’ Colin asked, his face flushed with alcohol.

  ‘I haven’t seen her all day,’ Jo answered. ‘Told me what?’

  ‘’Bout Mark,’ Colin said.

  ‘No,’ Jo said, her heart twisting at the mention of his name.

  ‘I must have told him too many stories about the forces,’ he grunted.

  ‘Why? What’s he done?’ Jo asked.

  ‘He and Skippy marched into a recruiting office on Christmas Eve,’ Colin laughed. ‘Drunk as skunks, no doubt.’

  Jo looked at them in astonishment. Marilyn explained. ‘They’ve signed up for the Navy.’

  ‘They’re having a leaving drink on Friday night at the Coach and Eight,’ Colin told her.

  Jo gave him a questioning look. ‘Am I…? Could I….?’

  Her brother’s look silenced her. ‘You’re kiddin’!’

  Marilyn gave her a pitying look. ‘Thing is, Jo − he’s been seeing Brenda again since you two split and it might be awkward if you came along − for you as well.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Jo gulped, her heart freezing over. She got up quickly. ‘Think I’ll spend the night at Pearl’s,’ she said hoarsely and escaped from their cosy togetherness. Standing on the open walkway of the ninth floor a few minutes later, Jo took deep breaths to calm herself as she stared out over a frozen Wallsend.

  Well, at least that was the end of it, she thought numbly. Mark was leaving, just like she had encouraged him to do. Now that it was happening, she felt engulfed with sadness at the thought. Yet a small part of her cried out with relief. This awful limbo might come to an end and they could move on and get over it, she thought. While they both remained in Wallsend, likely to bump into each other, it was impossible, and Jo knew she was still too fragile to be the one who made the break.

  But Mark had taken the decision for them both. With that small glimmer of hope in her heart that she would one day get over all this, Jo blew a trembling kiss into the dark − a kiss for Mark, wherever he was, and the baby who was never to be. Then she bent her head on the frozen parapet and wept.

  Chapter Thirteen

  New Year’s Eve, 1981

  It was the first time Jo had been out in Wallsend celebrating New Year in three years. Usually she was touring with her community drama group in draughty village halls, performing pantomimes, or stuck in a strange town unable to get a bus home in time. She had not gone to college, but had found escape in drama and among her acting friends. Two years ago, she had found herself stranded with company director, Alan Wilson, in a Yorkshire mill town. Alan had suggested a curry and later they had gate-crashed a party of some Trotskyite mime artists and stayed for three days.

  She found Alan attractive, though he was nearly forty and his beard was turning grizzled. But he was charming and articulate, knowledgeable about his art and passionate about politics. He had lived in Paris and been on the barricades in 1968 before becoming a pacifist. He was well travelled, drank too much red wine and swore in six languages. For a year Jo had resisted his persistent attempts to get her into bed, for she had shunned any involvement since the traumatic break-up with Mark over five years ago. Two things changed that.

  In November 1980, almost four years to the day after Jo miscarried, Brenda and Mark got married. According to Marilyn, their relationship had been more off than on, but Brenda was tiring of the single life and rushed Mark to the registry office one leave. Marilyn and Skippy had been witnesses and Colin had been furious to miss both the stag night and the
wedding celebration. Jo was more upset by the news than she cared to admit.

  Then John Lennon had been assassinated, and Jo felt as if one of the family had died. She would have rung Colin, because they had always shared their Beatles passion, but he was in Belize. She struggled through a tiring day of performing in school to five-year-olds, then Alan came round with two bottles of claret and insisted on comforting her.

  Now they were lovers and Alan had settled in Newcastle, where he worked at one of the big theatres. He had a bohemian flat in Sandyford, full of Marxist paperbacks and windowsills covered in expensive wine bottles holding dripping candles. Jo continued with her drama-in-education group, which struggled to survive with ever-decreasing funds. To eke out a living, she had gone back this past year to work in Ted’s pub.

  ‘It would be cheaper to move in with me,’ Alan kept tempting her. ‘I wouldn’t charge for the use of my bed,’ he teased, ‘and I’d promise to cook you curry at least once a week.’

  But so far, Jo had refused. She suspected Alan had had many such arrangements in chaotic flats from Newcastle to Paris, and was not convinced of his ability to stick with her. Besides, she enjoyed being courted by this sophisticated, sensual older man who was so different from Mark or Gordon. Alan gently ridiculed her for still living with her father in his ‘petit bourgeois’ flat with the china poodles on either side of the electric fire.

  ‘You’re about as liberated as a battery hen,’ he laughed.

  He did not begin to understand that for a long time after the miscarriage she had needed to stay close to both Jack and Pearl. They were the only ones who accepted her without criticism for what she had done, who gave her comfort when black bouts of grieving took hold of her many months after losing the baby. Pearl had retired from sea and often Jo would spend as much time in her flat as Jack’s. While her old friends and Colin had distanced themselves for a while and sided with Mark, her father and aunt had told her to hold her head high and not be afraid to face the world.

  ‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ Pearl would insist, when Jo was plagued with guilty feelings.

  ‘You’re the one who’s been wronged,’ Jack would defend her. ‘And you’ve lost your bairn − nobody deserves that.’ Jo was taken aback at how emotional her father was on the subject, and was deeply touched by his concern. She grew closer than ever to both Jack and Pearl, wondering what she would have done without them.

  As Jo emerged from her depression, grateful for their support, she began to wish that her father and Pearl would finally marry. She knew each cared deeply for the other, and yet there was always a reserve to their relationship, a holding-back. They went ballroom-dancing together and enjoyed the occasional outing to the dog track. Pearl even dragged Jack along to the theatre now and again. But they maintained their separate lives and flats. Pearl helped out at the Seamen’s Mission and went to keep-fit classes, while Jack did his caretaking and kept around the home. He always had a bed made up for Colin’s return and he seemed reluctant to let Jo go.

  ‘I’m twenty-four now, Dad,’ Jo had joked recently. ‘Most fathers would be glad to see the back of a pest like me.’

  ‘There’s no point moving out for the sake of it,’ he declared. ‘You’re happy here, aren’t you? I thought we got along canny.’

  Jo kissed his gaunt cheek. ‘Course we do. I just thought − well, maybe, you might want a bit more room.’

  ‘What for?’ Jack asked.

  Jo gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘Isn’t it about time you and Pearl…?’

  Jack had flushed. ‘There’s nowt like that between your aunt and me. No, this is your home, Joanne, and I want you and Colin to always see it that way. Unless either of you get wed, of course. I don’t know why he hasn’t done anything about Marilyn,’ he blustered on. ‘She’s a grand lass − smart too, teaching those strapping eighteen-year-olds. She’ll not hang on for ever.’

  ‘Knowing Marilyn, she probably will,’ Jo smiled wryly. ‘She’s been sweet on our Colin since primary school.’ Jo thought she would be as happy as her father if her brother and old friend did marry, for Marilyn had helped Jo’s reconciliation with Colin after she qualified as a teacher and returned to live in the area. As long as they didn’t talk about the Duggans, she and Colin did not argue about much. Jo realised it was the best she could hope for with her stubborn older brother. But Colin appeared married to the army and loved his itinerant life and the camaraderie. He had been all over the world.

  ‘And are you sweet on this lad of yours − the actor?’ her father asked anxiously. Jo laughed to think of Alan being called a lad. He was as near her father’s age as hers.

  ‘He’s a director, Dad,’ Jo smiled. ‘And yes, I’m in love with him.’

  ‘Is he going to marry you?’ Jack asked bluntly.

  Jo shrugged. ‘I doubt it. He’s been married before. Doesn’t believe in it any more. Thinks it’s “bourgeois and repressive”,’ she parodied.

  Jack snorted. ‘What does the bugger mean by that?’

  ‘It means he likes to keep his options open, I suppose,’ Jo said drily.

  Her father gave her a direct look. ‘Well, I hope you’ve got a healthier view on marriage.’

  Jo laughed shortly. ‘I think marriage is grand … for people your age, or Pearl’s,’ she teased.

  Jack turned from her with a grunt of impatience. ‘I just don’t want to see you getting hurt again, that’s all.’

  But this New Year’s Eve, Jo was more optimistic than she had been for a long time. She had worked the previous night at the pub and now she was having a night off with Alan, wanting to show him the sights of Wallsend. He seldom ventured this far out of the city, despite his rhetoric about the rights of shipyard workers and the ‘diabolical’ Mrs Thatcher, who was busy making anyone who moved unemployed. Tonight Jo was going to enjoy having him hugging her possessively in the crush of revellers in the pubs along the high street.

  Since coming back to work at the Coach and Eight, Jo felt she had been accepted again by her old friends. This past year she had even felt comfortable with Brenda when she came in the pub. Brenda had refused to stay on the naval base while Mark was away at sea and continued to live with her mother, who had moved into a newer flat across the coast road. Now Brenda would include Jo in the gossip like old times with no awkwardness between them. Jo had even found it possible to chat normally to Mark and Skippy when they had returned on leave that summer. Now that Mark was married and she was in a relationship with someone else, both of them seemed to have regained confidence and an echo of their old, teasing friendship had returned.

  Jo took Alan into the Coach and Eight and he was soon propped up at the bar discussing football and politics with Ted. She marvelled at the easy way Alan had with people, always finding something in common. He would draw them out like flowers in sunshine, making them feel special. He knew that Ted liked a good argument and he was doing his best to stir him up about Newcastle United.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Ted,’ Jo laughed. ‘He doesn’t even watch footie. He’s a rugby supporter.’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a game that isn’t ruled by money,’ Alan declared.

  ‘Hello, Jo-Jo.’ A familiar voice made Jo’s smile freeze on her lips.

  She turned to see Gordon in the throng behind her. She had not set eyes on him for over two years, for he had moved down to the coast to work at Tyne Dock and seldom came home. Ivy had told her that he had fallen out with his father for taking a management course and becoming a foreman instead of remaining a docker like Matty. But Ivy had been pleased. ‘Well, he’s got a wife and a bairn to look after now, hasn’t he?’

  Jo’s stomach twisted to remember how quickly Gordon had married after his damaging revelations about their affair. He had made it up with Barbara and married her in the summer of ‘77. One year later, they’d had a dark-eyed girl named Michelle. Jo had told herself she didn’t care, but she felt pangs of envy to see Barbara pushing the baby around the town and down to Ivy’s. Sh
e could not help wondering whether her baby might have looked a bit like Michelle, and so had been thankful when they had moved away. Jo was sure it was Barbara who had chivvied Gordon into getting qualifications and leaving Wallsend and his father’s malign influence. ‘Doesn’t get on with Norma,’ Brenda had said, ‘or Matty − but then who does? Me and Mark don’t bother with his parents either.’

  Now Jo turned and faced Gordon. His hair, cut shorter, was receding slightly at the temples, and he had grown a moustache, which suited him. He gave her that familiar appraising look that used to make her stomach somersault. Instinctively, she leaned towards Alan.

  ‘Hello, Gordon,’ she said coolly. ‘Where’s Barbara?’

  ‘Not feeling well − and she doesn’t like drinking round here anyway,’ he answered. ‘How about you? You’re looking canny.’

  ‘Fine. This is Alan, by the way,’ she said hastily, slipping her arm through his. The men exchanged looks, then Alan put out a friendly hand. She knew that he had guessed who this was, for he knew all about her bitter affair and traumatic miscarriage.

  Gordon shook hands warily. ‘You two work together?’ he asked.

  Alan gave a sardonic smile. ‘Yes, we work together very well.’ To Jo’s dismay he added, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Gordon accepted and soon Alan was chatting to him about the state of the yards.

  ‘Everything’s changing on the river,’ Gordon told him. ‘Cargoes coming in on the big roll-on-roll-offs – can’t get up the Tyne to the old docks any more. That’s why Newcastle’s got to close. But try telling that to me dad. The dock labour scheme will have to go, along with stubborn buggers like me dad who think everyone owes them a living.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t he?’ Alan demanded. ‘Don’t the dockers deserve a bit of security after decades of casualisation? Would you have them go back to jostling like cattle at the gates for work twice a day, at the mercy of the bosses?’