Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Her cousin pointed out two newly built houses on the fringe of the woods. ‘Used to grow peaches and melons over there. We still grow vegetables, but nothing fancy. The sheds are used to storing trunks. Used to grow the sweetest asparagus - and chicory - and the best runner beans.’

  Behind, the castle stood dark and brooding in the twilight.

  ‘Why are there so few lights on?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘They don’t use that half,’ George explained. ‘It’s not safe. Floors caving in. Old mine workings underneath.’

  ‘Is that why the Liddells left?’

  George nodded. ‘Made their castle from coal - and lost it to coal. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  Catherine glanced at her cousin. There was more to him than his taciturn shyness.

  ‘Do you remember a man called Pringle-Davies?’ she asked as they walked on. ‘Used to visit here years ago when you were a boy.’

  George removed his cap, scratched his head and replaced the cap in a swift movement. He shook his head.

  ‘Maybe you knew him as Master Alexander?’ Catherine pressed.

  He kept walking as if he had not heard. They rounded a corner of overgrown rhododendrons and were suddenly standing before a lake. It was half silted up with pale reeds that rustled and moaned in the evening breeze. The water glittered in the dying light and rippled where small fish nipped the surface.

  ‘How beautiful!’ Catherine gasped. At the far end, a boathouse stood abandoned, its roof half gone.

  ‘The pupils aren’t allowed down here, but I sometimes bring me rod and catch a fish or two,’ George confessed.

  Catherine stood entranced. Here, more than at the run-down castle, she could imagine the former glory of this mighty estate. She pictured the gentry being rowed on the lake, or picnicking in the shade of the overhanging trees. For all its forlorn, overgrown state, it was still a place of faded romance; a lake created for no other reason than aesthetic pleasure. She breathed in the pungent smells of ripe fruit and weed-choked water.

  Suddenly George said, ‘Aye, I do recall him. Master Alexander.’

  Catherine stared at him, her heart tripping.

  ‘He gave me a shillin’ once.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For carrying a lantern - so he and Lady Ravensworth could see their way home. Came into the hothouse to try the peaches. We were closing them up for the night - Father and me.’

  Catherine felt a wave of disappointment. So it was true that Pringle-Davies was more likely to have been Lady Ravensworth’s lover than Kate’s.

  ‘Your mam was there an’ all,’ George said. ‘She was carryin’ Alfred, ‘cos he was tired out.’

  Catherine’s stomach lurched. ‘Are you sure? Kate met him too?’

  Her cousin nodded. ‘Now I come to think of it, they were on speaking terms.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, once I was down by the lake fishing. Shouldn’t have been there,’ he said, blushing. ‘Saw them across the other side.’

  Together?’

  ‘Aye, walking and talking. Heard him laughing. Must’ve bumped into her. Kate often took that way back to the castle when she’d been to see us. He would talk to anyone, would Master Alex.’

  Catherine trembled in the chilly breeze. She looked across the lake and could almost see Kate with Alexander. A young, pretty Kate with a slim face and lustrous brown hair, laughing with the tall, handsome cousin of the Liddells.

  ‘When’s the last time you saw him?’ she asked in a hushed voice, as if any noise would shatter her vision.

  ‘Years ago,’ George said, leading them back along the path. ‘Don’t remember seeing him much after the old earl died. Was a lot of chopping and changing in them days - three men inheriting the estate in as many years. Maybe he fell out of favour. Was a canny man, though Father said he was a wild’un.’

  Catherine felt her frustration mount. She had a strong sense of Alexander’s presence, yet he eluded her.

  ‘Who would know what had happened to him?’

  George turned and gave her a wary look. ‘Why do you want to know? What you asking about him for, any road?’

  She shrugged and smiled. ‘Just wanting to know more about what life was like when me mam worked here, that’s all.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘Ta for showing us round. I’ve enjoyed it - and I won’t tell on you for fishing where you shouldn’t if you don’t tell on me for being nosy.’

  But all that night, as the wind picked up and whistled down the chimney, Catherine lay awake imagining Kate’s secret assignations beside the secluded lake. How easy it would be to fall in love in such a place. For the first time she had a glimpse of Kate’s point of view: a naive, gregarious girl, flattered by the attentions of sweet-talking, reckless Alexander.

  She tossed on the hard truckle bed, disturbing the ginger cat. Yet what had happened to Alexander? He had vanished without trace in the upheaval of dying earls and disruption of business. Since then the gentry had been decimated by the war in Europe, the castle was subsiding into old mine workings and the Liddells were long gone.

  In the morning, Catherine rose early and made porridge for her aunt and cousin. After breakfast she said her farewells.

  ‘Think I’ll take a walk around the village before I get the train,’ she explained. ‘Thank you, Aunt Lizzie, for everything.’

  ‘Tell your mam and Mary that I’m asking after them.’

  ‘And Grandda?’ Catherine prompted.

  Lizzie sucked her gums in disapproval. ‘Aye, if you must.’

  As they kissed goodbye, Lizzie’s face suddenly lit with a memory.

  ‘He was an artist,’ she announced.

  ‘Who was?’ Catherine queried.

  ‘Master Alex. I’ve been trying to remember since you were asking. Used to go about the place sketching folk in a little book. Did one of my Peter and the bairns. Kept it all these years in the back of the Bible.’

  ‘Can I see it?’ Catherine gasped.

  She hobbled across to the fireside and pointed to two large books jammed in a nook beside the range. ‘Lift them down, hinny. It’s in the Old Testament.’

  Catherine laid them carefully on the table. Lizzie pulled out a yellowed piece of paper with shaking hands.

  ‘There. It’s just the spit of my Peter,’ she said fondly.

  The charcoal drawing was smudged and faded, but the figures were neatly drawn: a man in a cap sitting up on a flat cart, two boys grinning over his shoulders. From her own drawing lessons Catherine knew how difficult it was to depict people.

  ‘I can tell it’s George,’ she said in delight, tracing the sketch with her finger. In the corner were the initials, APD. She felt a thrill at this tangible evidence of his existence.

  Lizzie nodded. ‘Like I said, he was an artist.’

  Catherine longed to take the picture with her, but knew how much it meant to her aunt and did not ask.

  Walking back down the hill, with the bells of Lamesley church ringing across the fields, she wondered if Alexander had ever sketched her mother. She was convinced that this man was her father, felt it deep inside. All she needed to do was discover where he had gone.

  Catherine circled the inn at Ravensworth for half an hour before plucking up the courage to approach. The front was locked up, so she went round to the back, past stables and outhouses where hens pecked in the dirt.

  ‘What you want?’ a large woman in a faded apron demanded, as she threw scraps to a dog at the door.

  ‘Can I have a glass of water?’ Catherine asked, feeling foolish.

  The woman jerked her head. ‘Come in.’ Catherine followed her into the gloomy kitchen and watched her splash water into a cup. ‘You’re not from round here. Lost your way, eh?’

  ‘Visiting an
aunt,’ Catherine explained, sipping quickly. ‘Two of me family used to work here. Kate and Mary McMullen. Did you know them?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Must have been a while back. We’ve had the inn for ten years. Took over from old Bram Taylor.’

  ‘Is he still living round here?’ Catherine was hopeful. He of all people would remember Kate and her father, for it was here that they courted, according to Aunt Mary.

  The woman shook her head again. ‘Died in the war, heart gave out.’

  Catherine tried one last time. ‘Did you know a man called Pringle-Davies? Used to come to the castle on business.’

  The landlady frowned and repeated the name. ‘Sounds familiar.’ Then realisation broke across her face. ‘Aye, there was a man called Davies used to come now and again. We’d water and feed his horses while he went up to the castle.’

  Catherine’s heart leapt. ‘Well-dressed gentleman?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Do - do you know where he lives?’ She held her breath.

  ‘Oh no, lass, he’s dead. About the time the Liddells left Ravensworth, if I remember rightly.’

  Catherine felt punched. ‘Dead . . . are you sure?’

  ‘Aye. I remember types like that with money to spend on the best rooms.’

  ‘What did he die of?’ she forced herself to ask.

  The woman looked surprised. ‘Old age, I wouldn’t doubt.’

  ‘Old age? But wasn’t he quite young?’

  The landlady snorted. ‘He was eighty if he was a day. Anyway, what you so interested in him for?’

  Catherine felt light-headed. She must be talking about the wrong Davies. But at least that did not mean that Alexander was dead. She thanked the woman and departed swiftly, mumbling about a train to catch. The landlady stood at the door watching her go.

  She trailed back to the station, frustrated at the fruitless search. It had all happened over twenty years ago. Who was going to remember a maid from the town who left in a hurry or a casual guest at the inn with a well-cut coat and a silver-topped walking stick?

  Still wrapped in her thoughts on arriving back at the workhouse, Catherine was shocked by what awaited her. The women in the staff room turned to gawp as she sauntered in.

  ‘Where you been?’ Hettie demanded, breaking the stunned silence. ‘Matron wants to know.’

  ‘It’s me day off.’ Catherine was indignant. ‘I can do as I like.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ Hettie said, with a gleam in her eye that was unnerving.

  ‘Been searching the town for you,’ Gert said excitedly. ‘Last night your mam came looking for you - said there’d been a row and she was worried you’d do something daft.’

  ‘She was very upset,’ Hettie declared, ‘so Matron said we had to help look for you. Went to that Catholic club of yours - even asked the priest but you hadn’t been at church.’

  ‘And Lily’s,’ Gert said, ‘but we couldn’t find you anywhere.’

  Then your mam started crying and said you might have gone to have it out with a man called Gerald Rolland,’ Hettie said, revelling in the telling.

  Catherine looked at her stunned. ‘You never. . .?’

  ‘But your mam doesn’t know where he lives, so Matron called out the police,’ said Gert.

  ‘The police!’ Catherine’s hands flew to her face. She felt faint.

  ‘Had to,’ Hettie said. ‘Thought you might be in real bother. It all came out about you being on holiday with this man. But you weren’t there and he swore blind he’d never seen you in a week.’

  Catherine’s knees buckled. She grabbed the back of a chair. What had Kate done now? Fear made her sick.

  ‘So where were you?’ Hettie demanded. ‘If you weren’t with that man Rolland, then where?’

  ‘Visiting me Great-Aunt Lizzie,’ Catherine croaked, gulping back tears. ‘You had no right to gan looking for me, you had no right.’

  Hettie snorted. ‘That’s not the way Matron sees it. What a carry-on. You’re for the high jump, that’s for sure.’

  One of the older women said anxiously, ‘Better get along to Matron, Kitty, and sort it out. Sooner the better.’

  Chapter 19

  Matron was livid. ‘You are a very selfish young woman,’ she scolded, ‘taking off like that without letting anyone know. Your mother was worried sick. And as for all that business with this man Rolland - I was obviously right to have my doubts about you when you picked up that strange rash.’

  Catherine was puce and sweating. ‘I’ve never done anything improper,’ she stuttered.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look good,’ Mrs Hatch snapped. ‘Gallivanting off on holiday without anyone to chaperone you - and with what sort of man? The type who has no intention of marrying you. You’ve brought disgrace to this institution. And you such a devout churchgoer. You’ve been very foolish, very foolish indeed.’

  Catherine swallowed her panic. Was she going to be sacked?

  ‘I’m sorry for causing all the bother. But it was me day off and I just decided at the last minute to gan and see me Great-Aunt Lizzie.’ She held her look. ‘I’m a grown woman; I didn’t think I needed anyone’s permission to visit family.’

  Matron regarded her coldly as if she did not believe her story. ‘Just on a whim, was it?’

  Catherine glanced down. She could hardly tell her she was searching for her father.

  Matron continued. ‘Your mother came here in a terrible state - we had to do something.’

  Catherine felt queasy. Had Kate been the worse for drink? What else had she told them about their argument or let slip about their family?

  ‘You will go at once to the police station to report that you are no longer missing and then you will go and make your peace with your mother.’ Matron stood up. ‘You will be back here by four o’clock and help out on the vagrants’ ward. As punishment, you will not be allowed time off for a month.’

  Catherine opened her mouth to protest.

  ‘Think yourself lucky that I’m taking this no further,’ Matron warned. ‘The Board of Guardians might not be so sympathetic.’

  Catherine swallowed, nodded and hurried from the room.

  Suddenly she was angry. She had done nothing wrong. It was just the poisonous minds of the other staff who had got her into trouble. And her meddling mother. She seethed with anger against Kate. It was her garrulous tongue that had caused all this and exposed her affair with Gerald. Oh, Gerald! Catherine felt a wave of shame to think how he had been dragged into this too. How he would despise her now for bringing the police to his door.

  With each grim step her fury grew. It was fuelled by the indulgent laughter and mild rebukes from the police, so that by the time she paced up the bank to East Jarrow, she was fit to burst with the unfairness of it all. All the tenderness she had experienced at Ravensworth for the young Kate was gone. That Kate no longer existed. She had turned into a drunken, manipulating, vengeful old woman.

  Catherine burst into the kitchen, startling Kate out of her nap.

  ‘You’ve done it now!’ she blazed. ‘What do you think you were doing, coming to the workhouse and causing trouble?’

  ‘Kitty,’ she gasped, clutching her chest, ‘what a fright. Where’ve you been? I was that worried—’

  ‘No you weren’t. You’d just hoyed me out the house, remember? Must have put on a right act for Matron - pretending you cared - but it’s all a load of rubbish. You just wanted to get your own back, didn’t you? I never thought you’d sink so low - trying to get me the sack, were you?’

  Kate looked stricken. She struggled to her feet. ‘I wanted to say sorry, but you weren’t there. I got all panicked you might’ve gone to Rolland, you were that upset.’

  ‘Is that why you told them all about me and him on holiday
?’ Catherine trembled as she spoke. ‘ ‘Cos they all think I’m worse than muck now. Think I’m a slut who runs around after men. Is that what you wanted them to think?’

  ‘No, never!’

  The bedroom door opened. ‘What’s all the noise?’ Davie stood in trousers and vest, his face creased from sleep. He caught sight of his stepdaughter. ‘Where’ve you been? Your mam was in a right state when I got in last night.’

  Catherine clenched her fists. She was sick of people asking her that question and she was not going to be lectured to by Kate’s husband.

  ‘I was visiting family, if you must know,’ Catherine challenged. ‘I spent the night at Ravensworth.’

  Kate gasped and sat back down. ‘Ravensworth?’ She looked bewildered.

  ‘With Great-Aunt Lizzie.’ Catherine watched her mother intently. ‘We talked of the old days when you lived there - when you worked at the castle. Cousin George told me things too.’

  ‘Things?’ Kate said, flustered.

  ‘Aye, we had a canny walk around the place - down to the lake.’

  Kate looked grey with shock. ‘Why?’

  ‘ ‘Cos I wanted to find out about me father. Alexander Pringle-Davies. Isn’t that who he is?’

  Kate let out an agonised moan.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Davie said, rushing to Kate’s side and putting a protective arm about her.

  ‘Who told you?’ Kate whispered, her eyes flooding with tears.

  ‘Aunt Mary,’ Catherine said, suddenly hating her mother’s distress. ‘I wanted to know about him,’ she tried to explain, ‘wanted to find him. I asked at the inn, but they didn’t know anything.’

  At this, Kate burst into tears. Davie hugged his wife to him and rocked her in his arms. Catherine felt miserable. She could not begin to explain how she only felt half a person, not knowing about her father. Finding him would make her whole; fill up the strange emptiness that was always there inside.

  ‘Can’t you tell me about him?’ Catherine pleaded. ‘Help me find him.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Kate sobbed. ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘Not for me,’ Catherine said, springing forward and seizing her mother’s hand. ‘Just tell me where he comes from—’