Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  They had a happy evening at the Messiah, and at the end Catherine dared to suggest, ‘It’s the staff Christmas dance next Saturday - would you like to come?’

  He looked startled, then glanced away. ‘I don’t - can’t dance.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Catherine laughed. ‘We can just sit and eat mince pies and watch the others.’

  ‘No, sorry. I promised to visit my mother. I won’t be in South Shields that night.’

  Catherine hid her disappointment. He was making excuses, she knew it. But perhaps he hated dancing and did not want to be shown up. She would do nothing to make him embarrassed, so dropped the idea.

  ‘So I won’t see you for a fortnight?’ she said glumly.

  He reached for her hand. ‘I’ll take you into Newcastle for a Christmas concert,’ he suddenly suggested. ‘The Saturday before Christmas. What do you say?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Catherine cheered up at once. ‘I’ve never been to Newcastle. Will we go on the train?’

  ‘Train and a concert - and tea at Fenwick’s,’ he promised, with his sensuous smile. Then he raised her hand to his lips and brushed it with a kiss.

  Catherine was shaking with excitement as she mounted the tram, quite forgetting that moments before he had spurned the idea of going with her to the workhouse dance. She attended it with Lily instead, but could not help telling her friend about her secret courtship.

  ‘Not Mr Rolland from church?’ Lily gasped.

  Catherine grinned. ‘Aye, and next Saturday we’re going to Newcastle for a concert and tea. He’s such a gentleman - and that interesting about music. Did you know he used to play the organ in a cinema in Newcastle?’ Catherine hesitated. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Lily shook her head. ‘Nowt. It’s just - well, I thought I’d heard he was married.’

  Catherine stared at her, stunned. ‘No he isn’t! He can’t be. Gerald isn’t the type to lead a lass on.’

  ‘Must have got it wrong,’ Lily said hastily. They looked at each other warily. Maybe Lily was a touch jealous of her being courted by such a man. After that, they did not speak again of Gerald Rolland, except at the end of the evening when Lily said, ‘Take care, Kitty. Don’t do anything daft in Newcastle.’

  Catherine was hurt that her friend should doubt her, knowing how cautious she was with lads. She had never let Tommy Gallon kiss her full on the lips like Lily had, so she was one to talk! But as the trip to Newcastle approached, she grew nervous and began to feel unwell. On the Friday evening, to her consternation, she began a heavy nosebleed. Gert called Matron Hatch and Catherine was confined to bed.

  ‘Has this ever happened before?’ Matron asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine admitted, ‘but it’ll pass.’

  ‘You’ll want to rest at home over the weekend. We’ll call for your mother.’

  ‘No,’ Catherine said in alarm. She did not want Kate coming anywhere near the workhouse or showing her up in front of Matron and her colleagues. ‘I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow.’

  But on Saturday morning, she could hardly climb out of bed with weakness. Catherine asked if Lily could visit her to take a message to her family. To her dismay, Hettie stood guard at the door, listening to their conversation.

  Catherine added desperately, ‘You will tell the choir master, Mr Rolland, that I cannot come to practice.’

  Lily nodded. ‘Where will I find him?’ she whispered.

  ‘Tyne Dock, quarter past one,’ Catherine mouthed, fighting back tears of frustration.

  It was three days before she was back on her feet and in the laundry. Lily could tell her little.

  ‘Aye, he was there,’ she told her hurriedly in the drying room. ‘Didn’t seem best pleased when I told him you were ill. Hardly said a word - didn’t even thank me for me trouble,’ she added indignantly.

  Dismayed, Catherine put a hand on her arm. ‘Ta for going. You’re a good friend, Lily.’

  Christmas Day came and Catherine saw Gerald at Mass. He gave her a searching look as he passed on the church steps and tipped his hat, but said nothing. Kate was standing beside her and did not miss the look or her daughter’s blushing.

  ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’ she said, staring at Gerald’s retreating back as if she had seen a ghost. ‘The man who took you to the pictures.’

  Catherine shushed her and began walking away. Kate limped after her.

  ‘I know his type,’ she said with a bitter little laugh. ‘All posh clothes and syrupy words, but a heart of bell metal.’

  Catherine was furious. ‘You don’t know anything about him,’ she hissed.

  ‘So why’s he ignoring you?’

  ‘He’s a shy and private man,’ Catherine defended.

  Kate snorted. ‘Don’t fall for any lad who thinks he’s better than you. Doesn’t matter what they say - you can see it in their eyes. Look into their eyes, Kitty.’

  They walked home in tense silence. What did Kate know? She was too embittered by her own mistakes with men to see good in any of them. Even Davie, who adored her, got the sharp end of her tongue when black moods took a-hold.

  Catherine tried to shake off her anger at her mother and the disappointment that Gerald had not spoken to her on Christmas Day. While Kate took nips of whisky in the scullery, Catherine busied herself with preparing the lunch of pork, stuffing and vegetables. She was gladdened by John’s glee at the new pipe she had bought him, and even Davie seemed pleased with the tobacco pouch and lighter she gave him. But the mood changed abruptly with the opening of Kate’s present. Her mother burst into tears at the sight of the pearl hatpin and navy gloves.

  ‘You shouldn’t gan spending good money on me,’ she blubbered. ‘I don’t deserve it. I haven’t had gloves like this since . . . such a long time.’

  ‘Something smart for church,’ Catherine said awkwardly.

  Kate shot her a look. ‘What d’you mean? You saying I don’t gan enough?’

  ‘No—’

  All at once, she was belligerent. ‘When do I get the chance? I’ve a house full of lazy men demanding this and that.’

  Davie said good-naturedly, ‘The lass didn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘What would you know?’ Kate snapped. Catherine felt a familiar dread at the angry gleam in her mother’s eyes. She was itching for a fight.

  ‘It wasn’t always like this, you know. I remember when I was a lass, we’d go every Sunday to Saint Bede’s in Jarrow.’

  ‘Shurr-up and get the dinner served,’ John ordered.

  ‘What a grand place - built by the men themselves.’ Kate gave John a defiant look and Catherine tensed. She knew where this was leading. ‘Aye, me own da was one of them. William Fawcett.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ John growled, picking up the poker and clanging it on the fender. ‘Don’t you mention that name in my house!’

  ‘The Fawcetts were well respected round Jarrow,’ Kate goaded. ‘Good Catholic family - regular churchgoers - and we lived in a respectable part of town.’

  ‘Kate ...’ Davie warned.

  ‘Not like the McMullens. They lived in the cottages - like middens they were - not fit for pigs.’

  John let out a roar. ‘Just let me at you!’

  But Kate knew John was too unsteady on his legs these days to catch her. ‘Mam cursed the day she ever set eyes on you,’ she said savagely. ‘It was me real da she loved with all her heart, not you.’

  ‘No!’ John cried. ‘It was me saved her from the puddling mills, not bloody Fawcett.’

  ‘You killed her,’ Kate said, trembling, ‘with your drinkin’ and fightin’. You put us on the street, turned us into beggars.’

  John hurled the poker at his stepdaughter. It gave Kate a glancing blow on her shoulder and smashed on to the table, toppling the jug of gravy. Kate gr
abbed at the poker, revenge in her look.

  ‘No, Kate!’ Davie pleaded.

  Catherine barged at her mother, wresting the poker from her grip and shoving her towards the door. Davie pushed the struggling, cursing John back into his seat. Out in the yard, Catherine stood blocking the back door until her mother calmed down, praying none of the neighbours had heard the commotion. The back lane was deserted.

  Kate stood panting with rage for several minutes. Abruptly, her shoulders crumpled and she began to sob hysterically. Catherine felt a strong mix of anger and pity and shame for the woman. What had possessed her to rake up the past like that and cause such a scene? There was nothing to be gained by riling old John.

  ‘Ta for ruining Christmas,’ Catherine muttered, upset by her mother’s excessive tears. This was what whisky did to her, turned her into a howling, unpredictable monster. It reminded her of how Kate had wailed over Grandma Rose’s grave, sodden with drink, shaming them all, while she had clutched at her grandda’s hand for comfort. He had been stoical and dignified, while Kate’s wild grief had been terrifying.

  ‘I-I’m s-sorry,’ Kate wept.

  Catherine turned away, peering into the kitchen where the shouting had subsided. Gravy dripped from the tablecloth and she wondered if the meal could be salvaged.

  ‘Don’t go,’ Kate sobbed, ‘please don’t go. I need you, Kitty.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ Catherine said in irritation. ‘You just want someone to clear up the mess you make.’

  ‘Don’t speak to your mam like that.’ Kate looked wounded. ‘I don’t know what came over me. It was just seeing him - today at church.’

  ‘Seeing who?’

  ‘Your man. He just reminded me of. . .’ She hung her head.

  Catherine’s heart squeezed. ‘Of who?’ she whispered. ‘Me da?’

  ‘Aye,’ Kate said hoarsely. She looked up with bleary, desolate eyes. ‘It made me think how different things would’ve been if I’d still been a Fawcett and not a McMullen.’

  Catherine held her breath, not wanting to stop her mother’s confiding.

  ‘How would it have been different?’ she asked softly.

  Kate’s voice shook. ‘He loved me as Kate Fawcett - the daughter of William Fawcett, a friend of the Liddells. He knew me da - knew him for a gentleman.’ Kate’s tone hardened. ‘But when he discovered I was a common McMullen, he couldn’t get away quick enough.’

  Catherine’s mind spun. Alexander had known her grandfather, William Fawcett. William was a friend of the Liddells! Did she mean the Liddells of Ravensworth, and was Alexander one of them? If so, Aunt Mary’s story of her aristocratic father could really be true. The blood hammered in her head.

  Kate took a step forward, swayed and steadied herself against the brick wall. She looked worried, as if she had said too much.

  ‘Don’t make the same mistake I did, Kitty,’ she urged. ‘Don’t pretend you’re someone you’re not. ‘Cos sooner or later you’ll be found out.’

  Chapter 12

  The raw January winds came along with growing stagnation at the yards. The nearby pits were working on short time and the steel mills were mothballed. Davie had managed to get a job on a coal boat between Newcastle and Gothenburg, and Kate was morose without him. But Catherine’s biggest upset was that Gerald had disappeared without trace.

  She threw herself into her work and her reading, redoubling her efforts to improve herself. Her mother was wrong; it was possible to change and become someone else. Her words of warning on Christmas Day had only served to make Catherine the more determined to break free of her shameful past. Perhaps Gerald had somehow learnt of it. Or maybe he thought her too ill-educated and ignorant to be his lifelong companion. An assistant head laundress might be a huge step up for Kitty McMullen of the New Buildings, but it was only the first rung on the ladder that would take her up and out of the unskilled classes.

  She would become a nurse. Nursing was a respectable profession that recruited from the middle classes too. Catherine scoured the public library for books on anatomy and studied late into the night.

  One evening Matron surprised her with a visit. Catherine leapt up and closed her books.

  ‘Sit down Miss McMullen. Your light’s on very late,’ Matron observed.

  ‘I’m studying,’ Catherine said proudly.

  ‘Can I see?’

  Catherine handed over a textbook. Matron flicked through it and looked up in surprise. ‘Why such an interest in the human body?’

  Catherine flushed. ‘I-I want to become a nurse,’ she stammered.

  Matron raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve never mentioned this before.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have a young man?’ Matron’s look was sharp.

  Catherine blushed deeper in confusion. ‘No, Matron.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’ Mrs Hatch closed the book and handed it back. ‘And there has been concern that your interest in such matters is - a little - unhealthy. I wouldn’t want you to do anything to sully the reputation of the workhouse staff. So perhaps you should limit the number of books of this type you leave lying about the staffroom.’

  She went, leaving Catherine gawping in stupefaction. She didn’t leave them lying around; someone had been poking about in her room. Hettie and Gert, more than likely, trying to get her into trouble! What else had they been telling Matron? How dare they spread lies about her. Was she never to escape their poisonous whisperings? How could Matron Hatch have believed them? Catherine flung herself on the bed and wept in fury.

  That Saturday evening, she went to church to find comfort among the flickering shadows and the calm patient face of the Madonna. Halfway through benediction, she was struck by a familiar deep voice. Glancing round, she caught sight of Gerald and could not help a broad smile of joy. Briefly he returned it.

  Afterwards, they walked into Shields as if there had been no hiatus in their courtship.

  ‘I’ve been working in Newcastle - my mother hasn’t been well,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Catherine said in concern. ‘Is she better now?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ The wind buffeted them. ‘Let’s go to a cafe for a hot drink,’ he suggested.

  Warming themselves over cups of hot chocolate, Catherine blurted out, ‘I was so worried that you’d gone for good.’

  He eyed her. ‘I thought you’d made excuses not to come with me to Newcastle. I was annoyed that you’d sent your friend, as if you couldn’t face me.’

  Catherine reached out and seized his hand. ‘No, I was ill - I had a terrible nosebleed and could hardly lift my head off the pillow. I so wanted to go with you to the concert. And then when you ignored me outside church at Mass - I was that miserable.’

  Gerald gave his quizzical smile that made her insides twist with longing.

  ‘So you’ve really missed me, Kitty?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she blushed. ‘Not a day goes by when I don’t think of you.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I’ve missed you too. But I’m back now and we can carry on seeing each other again - on Saturdays - maybe other times when you’re not working.’

  Catherine thrilled at his words. ‘That’s grand!’

  ‘But one thing, Kitty,’ he cautioned, ‘I don’t want you telling everything to that friend of yours - or gossiping about us to anyone else. This is private between us.’

  Catherine had a moment of doubt. Lily’s words about him being married suddenly came back to her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Kitty?’

  She had to ask him. ‘You’re not married, are you?’

  He recoiled as if she had slapped him. ‘What sort of man do you think I am?’ he asked in offence.

  ‘I mean, you’ve never been married in the past, have you?’ Catherine said w
ildly. ‘I wouldn’t mind if you were a widower or anything. I just wondered. . .’

  The look he gave her made her hot with shame. How could she have suspected such a thing?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.

  He surveyed her with sorrowful dark eyes. ‘I forgive you, Kitty. I don’t blame you for thinking it possible that a man of my age might have already been married.’ He took hold of her hand again. ‘But I can assure you I never have been. I’ve never found the right woman.’

  The way he looked at her and the touch of his hand made Catherine’s heart race with excitement and hope.

  ***

  They began to see each other regularly on Saturday evenings and as spring arrived and the days grew longer, Gerald would suggest evening walks in the countryside around South Shields, away from the busy streets. She delighted in his company, eager to learn from him about everything from music to insurance. He took her to concerts and encouraged her to take up the piano again. Kate had tried to make her learn as a child, but Catherine had been paralysed by the fear of how much debt was being amassed in unpaid lessons and a beautiful piano bought on tick. She had rebelled by being determined to fail and refusing to learn.

  But Gerald rekindled a love of the piano and a thirst for classical music. She had grown up with traditional singsongs and Irish tunes passed down from John. Kate could sing like a bird and once had brought tears to Catherine’s eyes with a bitter-sweet rendering of ‘Thora’, about a wintry landscape and a child lost. But too often Kate’s singing degenerated into raucousness and ribald songs that made Catherine blush.

  Gerald’s love of music was noble and pure, and she begged him to teach her all he knew. He was patient and considerate. Most of all, he did not scoff at her attempts at self-improvement as her workmates did.

  ‘Don’t listen to them, Kitty,’ he said dismissively, ‘they’re only jealous. You have a sweetness and refinement that they will never have - and an eagerness to learn. You must carry on with your studies. You’re too good for a workhouse laundry - a nurse’s training would be just the thing.’

  As summer came, Catherine’s dissatisfaction with her job grew. After Matron’s warning, she felt wary of confiding in her employer, so plucked up courage to approach Father O’Neill for help.