Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘But I hate Jarrow,’ Catherine said in a panic.

  ‘You don’t have to go for long,’ Bridie reasoned, ‘just a few days. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you remember.’

  ‘It will be.’

  ‘What about your other relations? Won’t your Aunt Mary and Uncle Alec want to see you?’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘I suppose they might.’

  ‘There you are then. And you never know, your mother might have signed the pledge.’

  Catherine gave a short laugh. ‘Pigs might fly.’

  Yet in the days that followed, she could not get the idea out of her head. It had been over two years since she had been home. Her letters to her mother had become increasingly infrequent and Kate’s haphazard replies had been given a cursory glance and thrown on the fire. They usually had a gripe about Mary or a neighbour or the closing of some shop Catherine struggled to remember. She knew nothing about how Kate really was.

  Catherine prayed about it and confessed to the priest her reluctance to go home. Like Bridie, Father John urged her to return. She had a duty to go and see that her mother was all right. So she wrote to Kate and told her she would visit at the end of August. A letter came by return, telling her of Kate’s delight at the news.

  With much trepidation and several sleepless nights before going, Catherine boarded the train for London and then onwards north.

  It was late in the day when Catherine reached Tyneside and caught the final train for South Shields. Her heart was thumping with nervousness as the familiar landmarks of the riverside and its cranes trundled into view. As the line curved above Jarrow, she saw the blackened outline of St Paul’s and the gantries of Palmer’s yards, and felt an unexpected ache. Gazing through the grimy window, she saw a group of men chasing a football on waste ground where a chemical factory used to be.

  Alighting at Tyne Dock, she saw with relief that Kate had not come to meet her. It would have been too awkward in front of others trying to find something to say after all this time. She was grateful for the extra time to compose herself.

  Nothing seemed to have changed. The same streets and dock warehouses crowded about her and a train thundered overhead as she passed under the massive, echoing arches. Catherine had been drawn to this part of town as a small child. She remembered how she had roamed freely, gazing up at the Arab seamen, who winked at her curiosity.

  But as she walked on, something nagged and she tried to pinpoint what was different. Perhaps it was less traffic, or the down-at-heel look of shop fronts. A crowd of children scattered past her like squawking seagulls, their bare feet drumming on the dusty pavement. It struck her that she had not seen children this skinny and sallow in two years. Hastings children had boots and well-fitting clothes.

  Her sense of unease grew as she wandered down to the dock gates, only to find them shut and padlocked. Weeds were thriving, undisturbed in the cracked paving. But it was late and the buzzer for the end of work would have long gone. She backtracked and made for the steep climb up the bank to East Jarrow, passing Leam Lane where she had been born. A group of men stood sharing a cigarette outside the Alexandria pub, and she felt a sudden pang of loss for her argumentative old grandfather. This had been one of his favourite drinking haunts and she strained for the sound of his bellowing voice, knowing she was being fanciful.

  The men fell silent, watching her go past with her neat suitcase as if it was the most interesting event of their day. It was only when Catherine reached the brow of the bank and saw the solid, sooty rows of the New Buildings ahead that realisation dawned. It was too quiet. Not just the subdued men, but the town and the riverside. Where was the noise of industry: the hooters, the claxons, the sighing and clanking of machinery? The hoot of a far-off train came clear over the distant fields, whereas before it would have been drowned in the clamour of the docks.

  Catherine looked about her with new eyes. The huddle of shabby jackets at the street corner were not boys after all. Dozens of men squatted on their haunches in the evening light, playing with children’s marbles. Her insides twisted. She knew from Kate that the ironworks had never reopened, but she had no idea things were so bad at the shipyards. Even through the uncertain years after the war, when the steel mills had been mothballed, there was always work to be found at the docks.

  Catherine picked up her case and hurried towards William Black Street.

  ‘Hinny!’ Kate cried, standing on the doorstep in a faded apron, waving. How much older her mother looked. ‘It’s our Kitty, come at last,’ she shouted to no one in particular. ‘Doesn’t she look grand?’

  Catherine gave a nervous glance round, embarrassed to be spotted by neighbours. A few darted to their doors at the noise and called out a greeting.

  ‘Doesn’t she look well, Bessie?’ Kate challenged her neighbour. ‘I told you she was getting on down south.’

  Catherine gave her a beseeching look. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  Kate grabbed her arm and held on to her proudly. ‘Bonny frock,’ she admired. ‘Haway in and let me take a proper look at you.’

  Inside, Catherine was overwhelmed by the familiarity of the stuffy kitchen, its dark furniture and old black range.

  ‘Where’s the picture of Lord Roberts?’ she asked, noticing at once it was missing from above the mantelpiece.

  ‘Sold it,’ Kate said with a dismissive wave. ‘Always reminded me of old John making us get up in the middle of the night and march around the room. Got rid of the settle an’ all, before you ask.’

  Catherine saw that the long bench had disappeared from behind the table. ‘Where am I going to sleep then?’

  ‘In your grandda’s old bed in the parlour, of course.’

  Baffled by a sudden surge of tears in her throat, Catherine studied the clippy mat by the hearth.

  ‘Do you remember helping me with that?’ Kate asked. ‘Your grandda made a song and dance about us using his old jacket that had gone at the elbows - and we had that lilac from the bonny winter coat you always refused to wear.’

  Catherine laughed at the memory. ‘It was a terrible coat - those big puff sleeves made me look like something from a travelling circus.’

  ‘It cost me a fortune,’ Kate protested.

  ‘No it didn’t - it came from the church bazaar.’

  Kate laughed loudly. ‘Trust you to remember.’

  It broke the awkwardness between them. Kate pushed Catherine into a seat by the fire and went to fetch a plate of food. She watched as Catherine ate the egg, tinned tomatoes and fried potato that had been keeping warm in the bottom oven.

  ‘Me and Davie have already eaten.’ Kate brushed away her attempts to share the food.

  Catherine made an effort to finish the plateful, relieved to see there was no sign of the whisky jar. Kate appeared quite sober.

  Catherine sat back and looked around. ‘Where’s Davie? I thought you said he wasn’t at sea.’

  ‘Out walkin’,’ Kate said. ‘He’s bad with his nerves. Helps clear his head.’

  ‘Nerves?’ Catherine repeated in surprise.

  ‘Aye.’ Kate looked reflective. ‘Hasn’t been to sea all year - land doesn’t suit him for too long, poor lad.’ Suddenly she was looking Catherine full in the face. ‘It’s bad for the men round here now - yards are closed - there’s nowt for them.’

  Her mother’s face looked suddenly old and drawn in the sepia light from the back window.

  Catherine asked anxiously, ‘What about you? You’re still working, aren’t you?’

  Kate sighed and shook her head. ‘No one wants odd jobs doing when money’s tight.’

  ‘You could take in lodgers again, couldn’t you? Now Grandda’s room’s empty.’

  A faint smile crossed Kate’s lined face. ‘It’s that peaceful round here without him,’ she said quietly, not answering the question
.

  Catherine would have questioned her further, but Davie appeared at the back door. She was shocked to see how much weight he had lost, his jacket hanging loose and his trousers held up with a thick piece of rope.

  ‘Hello, Kitty,’ he smiled. ‘It’s grand to see you.’

  He went and stood behind Kate and she took her husband’s hand. ‘Isn’t she looking bonny - and quite the lady. You should hear the way she talks now - all plums in her mouth.’

  Davie rested his other hand casually on his wife’s shoulder and Catherine was struck by their easy intimacy.

  ‘Aye, she’s looking grand,’ Davie nodded.

  Shortly afterwards, Catherine said she was tired and retreated to the front room. It smelt musty and unused. There were no rugs on the floor and her shoes echoed over the floorboards. The parlour table and chairs had gone and the fire was empty of fire irons or fender. The bulky iron bed was still in the corner, but the only other piece of furniture was one of the kitchen chairs with a wash jug and bowl balanced on top. Catherine shivered and climbed under the covers with half her clothes still on. If it was this cold in the summer, she could only imagine how icy the winters must be.

  The next day, having walked down the bank into Jarrow and seen the large groups of men standing idly round on street corners, she could no longer ignore the obvious. Jarrow was in the grip of a massive slump.

  Whenever she had read of such things in the national newspapers at the library in Hastings, she had quickly skimmed over the page. There had always been poverty on Tyneside; it came and went like the tide. But this was different. She had never seen so many out of work, so many children picking over the dross on the railway sidings. The cranes that she had seen from the train were rusting and still, the queues for yesterday’s bread long. There was an air of resignation in the stance of the bystanders, their shoulders hunched against the river wind, hands plunged deep into threadbare trouser pockets.

  She found Davie shaving on a stool in the back yard with a razor worn thin with years of use. Quietly he answered her questions. There had been strikes and riots down on the quayside caused by disputes between rival seamen desperate for work. Arab sailors who had lived here for years had been deported. The chemical works were closed and Palmer’s had gone bankrupt with many workers losing their savings as well as their jobs.

  Then he left her speechless with his admission that he and Kate had been forced to apply for dole and be means tested by the Social.

  ‘The means test?’ Catherine gasped. What an indignity for her hardworking mother.

  Davie nodded. ‘Had to sell half the furniture before they’d give us a penny,’ he said, unable to hide his bitterness.

  ‘Kate never said.’

  ‘She wouldn’t - not to you. Too proud. Besides, she wouldn’t want to worry you, lass.’

  Catherine felt her eyes sting with tears. She thought of her haven in Hastings, with its pleasant furnishings, a vast world away from this dismal existence in Jarrow, but when she tried to raise the matter with Kate, her mother was quick to shrug it off.

  ‘He shouldn’t have told you,’ she said crossly. ‘We’re getting by.’

  ‘I can send you money.’

  ‘They’d just tak our dole away if you did, hinny,’ Kate said, putting out a hand to touch her. ‘I don’t want them busybodies coming round here, poking their noses in again.’

  ‘They needn’t know,’ Catherine said.

  Kate snorted. ‘One of the gossips round here would sharp tell them.’

  Catherine looked so worried, Kate shook her gently. ‘It’s enough to know you’re gettin’ on well down south, hinny. That’s better than all the tea in China. What I wouldn’t give to see this Hastings of yours.’

  Catherine looked away, pretending she had not seen the longing in her mother’s eyes. She wrote almost daily to Bridie, pouring out her dismay at what she had found. Yet, she took heart from one thing: Kate had never seemed so contented. There was scant food in the pantry and long hours to fill, but her mother was cheerful and sober with no John to bully or deride her. Davie was affectionate and attentive, and Kate basked in his kindness like a cat in sunshine.

  ‘This one thing pleases me,’ Catherine wrote to her friend, ‘that Kate and Davie are happy together. I’ve often felt guilty for turning my back and making a life away from Jarrow, away from Kate, but now I see I was right to do it. It’s Kate and me that can’t make each other happy and it’s best we stay apart. I’m glad I came back and you were right to make me, but a week has been long enough. I can’t wait to get back to Hastings and be with you again.’

  While Catherine was packing her case, Davie appeared in the doorway. Kate was up the street, borrowing sugar for a final cup of tea.

  ‘She’d like nothing better than to pay you a visit, lass,’ he said. ‘Would do her the world of good to get away for a bit.’

  Catherine was flustered. ‘But I’ve got such a small flat - and she couldn’t afford the train fare, could she?

  Davie studied her. ‘No, but you could.’

  Catherine flushed, ashamed of her own reluctance. How could she possibly explain that she had spent two years forging a new life for herself, a new identity, burying her anger and hurt over her mother. A visit from Kate could wreck her new-found peace of mind, let alone her standing in the eyes of her colleagues and friends.

  She turned away, unable to meet his look. ‘I’ll leave money in the caddy,’ she mumbled. ‘Make sure she spends it wisely.’

  Kate came with her to the station. Catherine tried to hurry past the neighbours, but her mother waved and called out to the women at their doorsteps, proudly showing off her well-dressed daughter.

  As they walked down the bank, Kate said, ‘You never went to see Lily Hearn.’

  ‘No.’ Catherine tensed. Several times she had almost set out to go and see her former friend, but her courage had failed.

  ‘Did you two have a falling out?’

  Catherine shrugged.

  ‘Canny lass, Lily,’ Kate mused. ‘Saw her at Easter Mass. Was asking after you.’

  Catherine wanted to ask a dozen questions, but they stuck in her throat. It was still too hurtful to think Lily had spread rumours about her at Tendring.

  ‘What’s this new friend of yours like?’ Kate asked, as they reached the barrier at the station. This Bridie lass.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Not really a lass - nearer your age than mine.’

  Kate’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Thought you didn’t like bossy older women,’ she teased.

  ‘Bridie’s not bossy, she’s a real friend,’ Catherine retorted, as she showed her ticket and went through the turnstile. Kate had not bought a ticket for the platform, so could not follow.

  When Catherine turned, she realised it was too late to hug her goodbye. Kate stood, her look forlorn.

  ‘I’m glad for you, hinny,’ Kate said, her eyes glinting with tears.

  Catherine felt wretched with guilt. She had not meant to be hurtful and could not bear the thought of her mother crying at her leaving. The guard was going up the train slamming the doors and there was no time left.

  Suddenly Catherine blurted out, ‘Maybe you could meet Bridie some day.’

  Kate clutched the barrier. ‘What do you mean, lass?’

  ‘Come and visit us in Hastings,’ Catherine gabbled as she turned to get on the train. She threw her case on board and climbed in. Pulling down the window of the carriage, she leant out and saw her mother’s face beaming with delight.

  ‘That’d be grand, Kitty!’ she cried over the noise of steam as the train ground into motion.

  Catherine smiled back, a warmth flooding through her that took her quite off guard. ‘I’ll write to you soon,’ she promised with a wave.

  Kate waved back frantically and, even
through the steam, Catherine could see her face was wet with sudden tears. Her mother and Tyne Dock station disappeared in smoke. As Catherine sat back, the first twinge of doubt came. What had she been thinking of, inviting her mother at the last minute when she had spent a week being careful to avoid any such invitation? Kate in Hastings!

  Then she thought of Bridie. She would not have to cope with her mother on her own; her friend would be there to stand up to Kate too. They would tackle any difficulties together. Catherine felt a new surge of courage.

  Chapter 29

  Once back in Hastings, Catherine hoped her mother might forget her rash invitation to visit. Life settled back into its normal routine of busy working day and pleasant evenings at the flat with Bridie. That autumn, Catherine took up painting, joining a life-drawing class for adults. She had not touched a paintbrush since the days of painting cushion covers in Jarrow, but found that she still had an eye for perspective and detail. In a small way, it made her feel connected to her elusive father, whose drawing of Great-Aunt Lizzie’s family remained fresh in her memory. She tried to practise on Bridie, but her friend found it impossible to keep still and silent for any length of time.

  ‘You can make it into one of those impressionist paintings,’ Bridie teased, when Catherine lost patience with her fidgeting. ‘I can’t be doing with sitting like a statue. If you want something that doesn’t move, paint that banana over there.’

  Then a letter came from Kate, reproving her for forgetting her promise.

  ‘Did you not mean it when you asked me to come and see Hastings and meet your friend? I dearly want to come. Write and tell me, lass. I will need a lend of the train fare, but will pay you back when Davie gets work.’

  Catherine passed it to Bridie to read.

  ‘What’s the harm in a little visit?’ Bridie asked. ‘You can send her a return ticket, so she can’t outstay her welcome. I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t.’