Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Mick’s a canny lad,’ Kate defended, ‘and so are the bairns.’

  ‘Pitmen,’ John grunted, ‘they’re nowt but trouble.’

  ‘She sent me a ten-bob note,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Did she?’ Mary and Kate chorused.

  ‘See what I mean,’ John complained. ‘They plead poverty, then hoy their money around like there’s no tomorra.’

  ‘Well, there’s no risk of that happening round here,’ Kate jibed.

  ‘What you say?’ John snapped.

  Davie intervened. ‘Come and sit by the fire, John, and we’ll have another drink.’

  Catherine helped her mother and aunt clear the table. She glanced at the clock.

  ‘You can’t gan to bed yet,’ Kate warned, catching her look. ‘We’ll have a bit singsong when we’re done washing the dishes.’

  After two hours of John telling tales of Irish heroes, a further jug of beer and Kate’s singing, they grew expansive about seeing Catherine off on the train.

  ‘We’ll all gan through to Newcastle and see you off,’ Kate declared.

  ‘Aye, just like we did for our Jack,’ John agreed, ‘when he went off to fight the Hun.’

  ‘You weren’t here then, were you, Davie?’ Mary said.

  ‘No, he was at sea, guarding the likes of you and Alec,’ Kate was quick to point out.

  ‘Or at home in Cumbria with his first wife,’ Mary said cattily.

  ‘Jack was a grand lad,’ Davie said, not rising to the bait.

  But Kate grew suddenly tearful. ‘Poor Jack. Dying so far from home.’

  ‘Don’t start, woman,’ John growled.

  Kate threw her arms around Catherine. ‘Course we’ll gan and see you off. We’ll all get the train from Tyne Dock - have a drink in the Penny Whistle for Dutch courage on the way.’

  Catherine struggled free from her boozy grip. ‘I don’t want any fuss. And it’s early. I’ll be off at six. Meeting Lily and her parents at half-past.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ Kate promised. ‘Can’t have strangers seeing you off.’

  It was late by the time Mary and Alec left, and Kate and Catherine had cleared up and coaxed John to bed. He was rambling about his own war days, of marching through the heat and dust of Afghanistan.

  ‘Kitty, you try and get him to lie down,’ Kate said impatiently. ‘You were always best wi’ him.’

  The parlour, where he slept, smelt of incontinence, and Catherine braced herself as she and Davie hauled him on to the old iron bedstead and pulled off his boots.

  John clung to her and began weeping. ‘Just like me little Ruth - bonny, bonny lass.’

  ‘Go to sleep, Grandda. I’ll write to you from Essex.’ Catherine disengaged herself with difficulty.

  ‘Who was Ruth?’ Catherine asked, as she closed the door on the wailing man.

  Kate shrugged, her eyes bleary. ‘He talks a lot o’ nonsense, drunk or sober. Most likely there never was a Ruth.’

  Catherine could not sleep, dozing and clock-watching through the night on the hard settle. She got up with the dawn, splashing herself in cold water in the scullery. She stoked up the fire, dressed and made a pot of tea. Sitting on the fender, she gazed around the familiar kitchen with its clutter of furniture and smoky walls, wondering when she would do so again. Christmas? Next year? Never? She thought of the times she had sat there contentedly reading a comic, keeping out of the way, only to be shoved, or slapped or shouted at for some forgotten misdemeanour.

  In the street outside, she heard footsteps approaching. She went quietly to the door. It was Mr Hearn.

  ‘Lily sent me to help with your case,’ he smiled, shiny-faced in the early light.

  Catherine had a pang of gratitude for her considerate friend. She hurried back inside, put on her coat and hat and went to her mother’s bedroom door. She hesitated with her hand on the handle, listening for any sound that she or Davie were awake. Regular snoring came from beyond the door. She did not want to go in and see the two of them lying in bed together. If Kate woke, she would come to the door red-eyed and reeking of stale whisky, and embarrass Lily’s father.

  Catherine knocked softly on the door. ‘Ta-ra. I’m off.’

  Then quickly she stepped away, grabbed her case and rushed for the front door, before anyone had a chance to answer. Closing the door behind her, she strode down the street, eager to get away. Mr Hearn chatted pleasantly, but she said little, glancing around her as they descended the bank into Tyne Dock. They passed the familiar landmarks of the gasworks, Leam Lane, where she was born, and the cavernous, dripping railway arches leaping across to the docks.

  At the station there was excited chatter with Lily and her mother. The train came in and Mr Hearn helped them on with their cases. It was only when Lily burst into tears and hugged her parents, that Catherine felt a deep pang of longing and scanned the platform for a sign of her mother. Maybe her feeble knocking might have woken her and she’d come rushing down the hill to wave her away.

  But the doors slammed shut and the train jerked into motion without Kate appearing. She and Davie would be sleeping off hangovers until mid-morning, no doubt. As the train picked up speed and took them away from the docks, circling Jarrow and its tightly packed streets, Catherine felt a confusion of triumph and regret.

  Suddenly she slammed down the window of the carriage door and stuck her head out. A blast of coal smoke and river smells assaulted her. The houses of the New Buildings flew by in a swirl of steam and were gone. Unexpected tears flooded her eyes. She brushed them away impatiently.

  ‘Goodbye and good riddance, Jarrow,’ she shouted out of the window. ‘I’ve had enough of you to last a lifetime!’

  ‘Kitty!’ Lily said, shocked by her vehemence.

  ‘It’s true,’ Catherine said, turning to her friend defiantly. ‘I hate this place. I’m never coming back.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘I mean it. I’m not ever coming back!’

  ***

  About that time, Kate woke up and found her gone. A half-drunk cup of tea gone cold remained by the hearth.

  She went rushing into the bedroom screaming, ‘She’s gone, Kitty’s gone!’

  ‘Calm down, woman,’ Davie said, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘She never said goodbye. Why didn’t she wake us? She never even said goodbye. I never got a chance to say. . .’

  Kate flung herself on the bed and burst into tears of regret.

  Chapter 22

  Peering from the train window, Catherine gazed at the passing Essex countryside, while Lily dozed in the hot carriage, exhausted by the long journey. Gentle hills and lush woods gave way to fields of ripening corn and barley. At Witham the train stopped amid a sea of poppies. Catherine was reminded of the time she had first seen the blood-red flowers in the countryside beyond Shields. Kate had told her their name, astonished she did not know. But that was before the Great War, when poppies were a symbol of summer and not the dead of Flanders, like Uncle Jack.

  Catherine dismissed the unwelcome thought. Flowers bloomed everywhere in this lush land, and glimpses of rippling tiled roofs in market towns whetted her appetite for her new home. The train clattered on to Colchester and the landscape flattened out into a patchwork of green meadows and interlacing streams. Slow herds of dairy cattle migrated towards milking sheds under a cloudless blue sky. Grassland, dykes, windmills and cattle passed to the rhythm of the train, lulling her into a dwam.

  At Colchester the carriage emptied and Lily woke up. Two soldiers climbed aboard, smelling of hair oil, and sat down next to them. The younger one winked, making Catherine blush and stare more intently out of the window as they picked up speed.

  ‘Looks nice here, Lily,’ she said, scanning the skyline of church spires and timber-beamed houses. ‘We can visit on
our day off. There are two ruined abbeys and a castle - said so in the guide book I got out the library.’

  ‘As long as we can look round the shops an’ all,’ Lily yawned, sliding a look at the soldier next to her.

  ‘You girls aren’t from round here, are you?’ the young man asked with a grin.

  ‘No, we’re from South Shields,’ Lily said proudly. He looked at her blankly. ‘On the Tyne.’

  ‘Where’s that then?’

  Catherine answered shortly, ‘Near Newcastle. Up north.’

  The soldier pulled out a packet of Player’s and offered them round. The women shook their heads.

  ‘What you come here for?’ he asked, lighting up a cigarette.

  ‘Work,’ said Lily. ‘We’re startin’ on at Tendring.’

  The soldier blew out smoke. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s an institution near Harwich,’ Catherine said, wondering at his ignorance.

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t think why you want to work round here. Dull as ditch water.’

  ‘I think it’s very pretty,’ Catherine said in her most refined voice.

  The soldier raised his eyebrows at Lily. ‘If you like grass and water.’

  Lily smirked.

  ‘So what are you doing here if it’s so boring?’ Catherine challenged, annoyed at her friend.

  ‘Escaping for a night out in Harwich. Colchester’s full of tea shops and old farmers.’ He nudged Lily. ‘What’s your South Shields like then?’

  ‘A grand place,’ Lily said. ‘Big shops and picture houses and the yards - full of busy.’

  ‘Sounds like my sort of town,’ he grinned at her. ‘Harwich isn’t up to much, but I could show you the sights. Want to join us, girls?’

  ‘No we don’t, thank you,’ Catherine said at once.

  ‘What about your friend here? She looks like she needs cheering up.’

  Catherine saw with alarm that Lily’s eyes were filling with tears. Talk of home had upset her.

  ‘She’s tired, that’s all.’ Turning her back on the soldier, she searched for a distraction, cursing the man for reminding Lily of Tyneside. After a while she cried, ‘Look at that - a boat stuck in a field!’ She pointed at the red-sailed vessel marooned in pastureland on the horizon. ‘Must be a barge or something.’

  The older soldier beside her spoke for the first time. ‘It’s a sailing boat. The sea comes all the way inland. Used to be under the sea, that land over there. Call it Little Holland, it’s so flat.’

  She glanced at him in surprise. ‘Fancy that.’ His face was serious but his look kindly. Curiosity overcame her and she began asking questions about the area. He told her about the lighthouses and light ships dotted along the treacherous sandbanks, and that Harwich was the final stop of the Great Eastern Railway and had boats to the Continent daily. People still made a living from catching wild fowl in the myriad creeks and waterways, and harvesting oysters. It sounded mysterious and romantic. Catherine felt a shiver of expectation to be going to the lip of England, just a short sail away from the Low Countries and the wide world beyond.

  ‘You want to get yourselves to Clacton-on-Sea,’ the younger soldier broke in. ‘Nice beach for bathing and a bit of entertainment on the prom this time of year. You can keep the rest of Essex.’ He winked at Lily. ‘Would you like me to take you to Clacton, Lily my girl?’

  ‘Maybes,’ Lily giggled.

  Before they pulled into Harwich, the soldier had scribbled his name and address on a torn-off piece of his cigarette packet and pressed it into Lily’s hand.

  ‘Let me buy you a drink at the station hotel before you go,’ he pressed her. ‘That would pep you up.’

  Catherine gave Lily a warning look. ‘We’re being met, thank you.’

  The soldier shrugged. ‘Never mind, Lily, we’ll have that drink in Clacton.’ The two men helped them off with their bags, despite Catherine’s protestations that they could manage without the help of the army.

  ‘Thought we’d never get rid of them,’ she muttered as they left.

  ‘I thought the dark-haired one was canny,’ Lily said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have encouraged him. You don’t know him from Adam.’

  ‘You’re the one said we might find rich southern lads down here,’ Lily retorted.

  ‘Well, we’ll not find them in the barracks at Colchester.’ Catherine was dismissive.

  Lily gave her a look. ‘You’re one to talk. Don’t think I didn’t notice you putting on your posh voice for that other lad. “Ooh, fancy that and fancy this.” ‘

  Their arguing was interrupted by a stout man in a tweed jacket waving to them beyond the barrier.

  ‘I’m Mr Stanway, the master,’ he greeted them with a firm handshake. ‘Vines is laid up with gout - he’s the porter - so I’m here to fetch you. Follow me. The car’s outside. Missing my game of bridge, don’t you know.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Catherine said, hurrying after him with her heavy bag.

  ‘Can’t be helped. Vines’s to blame. Swears he doesn’t drink, but he’s always bad after fair day. I’d see him out on his ear, but he’s related to one of the guardians. Here we are. Climb in. Just push the box of fish over. Mrs Stanway can’t live without her rolled herring.’

  Squeezed in the back of the battered old Ford, Catherine tried to make conversation but soon gave up. The garrulous master kept it one-sided, throwing out questions but not listening to their answers.

  Harwich looked a drab port in the evening gloom, shrouded in a sea mist that chilled after the heat of the train. Through it could be glimpsed a low muddy coastline bound by stone walls. As they meandered inland, the watery landscape turned to marsh caught in a web of wide ditches. Above, the pearly sky was vast and empty. Catherine soon felt queasy from the stench of fish in the box and the twisting country lanes. Glancing at Lily, she saw her friend was sickly pale too.

  Winding down the window, Catherine breathed in gulps of damp, salty air. They bounced through small villages, mere straggles of cottages strung out either side of stone and flint churches. Mr Stanway rattled off their names: Little Oakley, Great Oakley, Stones Green, Thorpe-le-Soken. Just after leaving this last village, a wagon appeared in front carrying hay. The driver sat up high in a tall black hat, guiding his horse, and Catherine thought the sight quaint. She was wondering how they were going to get past it on the narrow road, when Mr Stanway picked up speed.

  ‘Careful!’ she cried.

  The master did not swerve or brake. Heart in mouth, she peered into the fading summer light, but there was nothing there.

  ‘Where did it go?’ she gasped.

  ‘Where did what go?’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘The wagon - in front - on the road,’ she stuttered.

  ‘Road’s been empty for miles,’ Mr Stanway snorted.

  ‘But I saw it,’ Catherine insisted. ‘The driver had this big black hat on . . .’

  Lily was giving her a strange look.

  ‘Didn’t you see it?’

  Lily shook her head.

  Mr Stanway grunted. ‘Must’ve seen a ghost. People round here are always claiming they’ve seen things - the common folk.’

  Catherine flushed. ‘Was just a shadow, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  The master continued, oblivious to her embarrassment. ‘Course, we’ve got a very famous ghost in these parts - St Osyth. Killed by the Danes. Still haunts the coast, dressed in white and carrying her head under her arm. Wouldn’t like to meet her on a dark night,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Priory’s worth a visit, though - magnificent gatehouse - near Clacton-on-Sea.’

  Lily nudged Catherine. ‘Have to go there then, won’t we?’

  But Catherine was left feeling uneasy by the incident. She had seen the man and his wagon clear
ly. There was a strange atmosphere about this flat, empty quarter that stole into her bones like the mist at dusk and seemed to bring the past with it.

  Her apprehension only increased on their arrival at Tendring. The village was no more than a handful of plain cottages, and a glimpse of a white-washed church surrounded by horse chestnut trees. Driving a further half-mile, they arrived outside a high-walled enclosure and a solid pair of rusting gates. They waited several minutes while Mr Stanway bawled for entry and a hobbling old man in old-fashioned breeches loomed out of the dark with a bunch of keys and let them in.

  ‘Is it always locked at night?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘Of course.’ The master was brusque. ‘No one comes in or out after seven o’clock - or four in winter. There are that many vagrants wandering about these days, we can only take so many.’

  ‘What about visitors?’

  ‘Visitors?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘If we wanted to invite friends . . .’

  ‘You can see them on your day off - every other Saturday. The guardians don’t encourage visiting. The inmates can see family members on Wednesday afternoons. But Mrs Stanway will explain all this to you in the morning. I expect you just want to get to your beds now.’

  The friends exchanged wary glances as the vast gates clanged behind them, but said nothing. They were too tired to notice much of their surroundings that night, except the chill gloominess of the high-ceilinged gothic building and the starkness of their narrow bedrooms, little more than cubicles, a long corridor apart.

  Catherine fell into a fitful sleep and dreamt of runaway wagons hurtling her down to the sea at terrific speed, waking only on the point of drowning. The next morning, she still felt the queasiness of motion from the long journey and the final car ride.

  ‘Miss McMullen?’ An elderly woman with a face deeply scored with wrinkles, and wearing a starched cap, knocked on her door and looked in before she answered. ‘I’m Mrs Atter. Show you where the dining hall is.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Catherine said, hastily buttoning up her cardigan and following. ‘Can I call for my friend Lily?’