‘Thanks for nowt! You hoyed me out.’
‘If you’re going to be like that, I’ll not bother coming.’
‘And if you’re ganin’ to twist your face, better that you divint!’
Catherine marched out, vowing never to visit again. Her ungrateful mother could do what she wanted; she refused to worry about her.
Later, when Bridie had calmed her down with hot tea and reassurances, Catherine felt a twinge of shame for her outburst. She had not meant to be churlish about Kate’s new lodging house, but her mother’s crowing over her had riled her so. After all she had put up with, the least Kate could have done was let her know where she had gone.
She was struck by a sudden memory. Catherine was playing around the lamppost in William Black Street with the other children. It was misty. She was smaller than most of them. They must have just moved from Leam Lane. Out of the mist came a tall woman in a pale lilac dress and a matching hat. Her oval face was flushed, eyes wide, skin translucent. Catherine gazed up at her, thinking how beautiful she was.
As soon as the woman set eyes on her, she rushed forward and grabbed her arms, shaking her hard. Catherine gasped in shock, realising it was Kate.
‘You little bugger! Where’ve you been? I thought you were dead! Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear?’
All the air was trapped in Catherine’s throat. She had no idea why her big sister was so angry, just that her grip was hurting her arms. Usually she looked forward to the rare visits home because Kate always brought treats from the baker’s where she worked. But now she was really angry with her for something she had done. The next minute, Kate was dragging her down the street, demanding to know where her house was. As soon as they got there, a furious row erupted with their parents ...
Catherine shook off the memory. It was from a time before she discovered that Rose and John were her grandparents and Kate her mother. The great betrayal. They had moved house to escape the rumours without telling Kate, and she had come frantically looking for them. Years later, Kate had still been furious about it and blamed it on her.
Catherine stifled her pity. Kate had been just as petty not telling her of the move to Maritime Place. As usual she was behaving like a wayward child.
It was autumn before Catherine forced herself to go and check on her mother. Bridie told her to let sleeping dogs lie, but a sense of duty got the better of her. She would call on her way to fencing so she could not stay more than a few minutes.
‘Haway in!’ Kate beamed at the unexpected visit, making Catherine feel worse.
‘Can’t stay - I’ve got a lesson.’
‘I’ve that much to tell you, lass.’ Kate ignored her excuse and pulled her inside. She made for the stairs. ‘I’ve a pot of tea brewing in the sittin’ room. One of me lodgers likes to take tea there while he’s studyin’.’
‘The kitchen will do,’ Catherine said in dismay. ‘I haven’t time for tea.’
‘Don’t be daft. It won’t take a minute.’ Kate gave her a proud look. ‘He’s a teacher at the Grammar School.’
‘Who is?’
‘Me new lodger. Got a degree at Oxford University. Fancy that, eh? One of my lads with a degree! Wait till you meet him.’
Catherine’s heart sank. ‘I don’t want to meet him - I’ve just come for a minute to see you.’
‘Told him me daughter was well read, an’ all. Think he thought I’d made you up - you not coming round here. You’ll just come upstairs for a minute. Rude not to.’ Kate went ahead, panting up the steep stairs.
Catherine gripped the banisters in irritation. Her mother was determined to show off in front of this tiresome teacher. She followed her into the sitting room, scowling and impatient.
‘This is me daughter Kitty I was tellin’ you about,’ Kate said breathlessly.
Low autumn sun was flooding the room. For a moment Catherine was dazzled and could not see to whom she was talking. There was a movement in the bay window and a slim man stepped forward from behind the table. The light caught his face, boyish and bespectacled. He looked far too young to be a teacher, more like a head boy.
‘This is Mr Cookson,’ Kate announced. ‘He teaches mathematics.’
The young teacher hesitated.
Catherine felt his awkwardness. ‘I’m just on my way to a fencing lesson,’ she said, ‘thought I’d call by.’
He regarded her silently, hands in pockets. Books lay open on the table beside him.
‘But you’re studying. Mustn’t interrupt,’ she said hastily. ‘I didn’t want to come up.’
‘Mr Cookson doesn’t mind,’ Kate said grandly. ‘We always stop for a cup of tea about now.’
‘Well, I can’t,’ Catherine said in a panic. The way he was staring at her was unnerving. ‘Got to go.’
Quite suddenly, he stepped towards her and held out his hand.
‘Tom,’ he said in a deep voice that belied his slight frame. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Catherine hesitated.
‘Where’re your manners, lass?’ Kate said. ‘Gan on, he won’t bite!’
She stepped to meet him and took his hand. It was smooth and warm - an academic’s hand. He held on to hers firmly. Close up, his eyes through the glinting spectacles were a warm brown, his mouth sensual.
‘Do you fence?’ she demanded.
His thick eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘N-no. I’m afraid I don’t.’
She pulled away. What on earth had possessed her to ask such an absurd question?
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She spun round and strode to the door. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ she gabbled. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Kitty!’ Kate cried.
Hot with embarrassment at making such a fool of herself, Catherine fled down the stairs and out of the house.
Chapter 39
‘What in the world is the matter?’ Bridie asked. ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles been chasing you?’
Catherine caught her breath. ‘No, nothing’s the matter.’
Bridie gave her a curious look. ‘Then why are you back so early?’
‘Early?’
‘You’re not usually back from fencing till after eight - and it’s just turned six.’
‘Fencing!’ Catherine clapped her hands to her face. ‘I quite forgot.’
Bridie was baffled. ‘But that’s why you went out.’
‘Yes, it was.’ Catherine burst out laughing.
‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’d been drinking,’ Bridie declared.
‘No, really I haven’t,’ Catherine said, flopping on to a kitchen chair.
‘Spill the beans, girl,’ Bridie ordered.
Catherine glanced at Mrs Fairy and Maisie, but they were deep in a game of snap at the table.
‘I went to see Kate.’
Bridie gasped. ‘She upset you? She’s back on the drink?’
‘No,’ Catherine said hastily, ‘nothing like that.’
‘Well, something must’ve happened to make you run back here like a rabbit!’
Catherine felt foolish. ‘She was showing off - wanting me to meet one of her lodgers just ‘cos he’s a teacher. I didn’t want to meet him but she made me. And . . .’
‘And?’
‘Made a fool of myself. I was a bit rude to the poor man. Then I ran out.’
Bridie was watching her intently. Catherine could feel herself blushing.
‘Doesn’t sound like anything to get in a stew about,’ said Bridie.
‘No.’ Catherine cringed anew to think of her strange behaviour. If she hadn’t been so annoyed with Kate, dragging her to meet the shy teacher, she might have greeted him with more courtesy and poise.
‘What was he like?’ Bridie asked.
‘Very y
oung - looked more like a schoolboy - probably his first job.’
‘Too young for you then,’ Bridie said bluntly.
Catherine gave her a startled look. ‘Oh, of course - I didn’t mean - I’m not the least bit interested—’
Bridie abruptly laughed. ‘Listen to you! Skittish as a kitten. Kate’ll be pleased she got you in such a tizzy over one of her precious lodgers.’
It was too late to go back for her fencing lesson and Catherine cursed her forgetfulness. Panic had made her head for home. By the next day, she could not believe her stupidity. She was cross with Kate for the embarrassing encounter and herself for missing her precious fencing lesson. What did it matter if some maths teacher thought her rude or odd? She would probably never see him again.
It was Saturday tea time when the timid Dorothy came to find her. Catherine was mending a chair in the chilly billiard room, which was now a glorified storeroom.
‘Miss McMullen - there’s a man at the door.’
Catherine pushed hair out of her eyes. ‘Can’t Bridie see to him? I’m busy, pet.’
Dorothy looked anxious. ‘He asked for you.’
‘Who is it?’
The pale girl bit her lip. ‘Sorry, I didn’t ask. I’ve never seen him before.’
Catherine sighed. It was probably some salesman who had got hold of her name. She marched through to the front entrance.
‘Hello, Kitty.’ It was Tom Cookson standing on the doorstep, hands in pockets.
Catherine stared at him open-mouthed. He was dressed casually in an open-necked shirt and tweed jacket, looking even more like a young student.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling. I was passing by - Mrs McDermott mentioned where you lived.’
‘Oh.’ Catherine was speechless.
‘But I can see you’re busy.’ He stepped back, looking less sure. ‘Unless you greet all your guests with a hammer.’
Catherine glanced down and saw she still clutched the tool. ‘Goodness! No, of course not.’ She plonked it quickly on the porch table. What a sight she must look, in an old pair of trousers and her hair in a mess. She pushed back her wavy fringe. ‘Please, come in.’
Tom hesitated. ‘I’d like to, but your mother will have tea on the table in twenty minutes, and I’ll be in trouble if I’m not back.’
Catherine was disappointed at such timidity, then saw from his sudden smile it was part in jest.
‘Yes, you will be,’ she smiled back. ‘Another time perhaps.’
‘Well,’ Tom said, clearing his throat, ‘there’s a Carole Lombard film on at the Odeon this evening. I wondered if you’d like to go.’
Catherine’s eyes widened in surprise. How did he know she idolised Lombard, even tried to copy her dreamy hairstyle?
‘Go with you?’ she asked.
‘Well, yes.’ He looked so young and uncertain after the bravado of asking, that she wanted to throw her arms about him in reassurance.
‘Of course I’d like to go,’ she said quickly. ‘What time?’
His lean face brightened. ‘Seven thirty.’
Catherine nodded. ‘I’ll meet you in the foyer just after seven.’
‘You will?’ He stood there grinning foolishly.
‘Yes,’ Catherine said a touch impatiently.
‘Good.’
He walked off down the drive, hands in pockets, whistling. Catherine wondered if she was mad going to meet him. Bridie would certainly think so.
She did not tell her friend until it was nearly time to go. Bridie gawped as she appeared downstairs in her favourite blue dress and high heels.
‘Not going dancing with the major, are you?’
‘No, the pictures.’ Catherine hurriedly put on her coat.
‘With Major Holloway?’ Bridie cried in disbelief.
‘With Mr Cookson.’
Bridie came after her to the door. ‘Who the devil is Mr Cookson? You’re not going to meet a stranger on your own? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘He only asked me two hours ago,’ Catherine answered with an apologetic shrug.
‘I better come with you,’ Bridie said at once. ‘Give me a minute to change.’
‘No, Bridie.’ Catherine was firm. ‘I can look after myself. I’m thirty, for heaven’s sake - and bigger than him!’
She opened the door and hurried into the dark.
‘You never told me who he was,’ Bridie called after her, ‘or where you met him.’
‘Tell you later,’ Catherine answered, and quickened her pace.
She knew from the light thrown on the driveway that her friend watched her till she disappeared from sight. She felt bad for springing such a surprise on Bridie, but it was tinged with excitement at her daring. Why shouldn’t she go out to the pictures with a young man? She couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked her. Bridie and she had gone so often when their friendship was new, and now she missed such outings.
Tom Cookson was a stranger in Hastings and probably lonely. Once he found friends he wouldn’t need to ask an old spinster like her. She would take advantage of the offer while she could.
He was waiting for her, dressed in a smart suit and tie, hair smoothed down. On catching sight of her, his serious face broke into a smile and she felt a small flutter inside. He had made an effort for her and she was flattered.
‘Bought you chocolates,’ he said bashfully, holding out a box. ‘Mrs McDermott said you liked them.’
‘You told Kate you were meeting me?’ Catherine said in alarm.
‘Shouldn’t I have?’
Catherine knew it would cause Kate amusement to think of her thirty-year-old daughter meeting her youthful lodger, but she didn’t care. She would endure teasing from her mother just to see a Carole Lombard film.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she smiled quickly and accepted the chocolates. ‘Thanks, this is a real treat.’
Tom had bought good seats in the balcony. As they settled in and ate chocolates, they swapped questions. Tom had come straight from university in Oxford into his first job at Hastings Grammar School. He loved his subject. The pupils were great. Essex was where he came from.
‘I worked in Essex for a short time,’ Catherine said.
‘I know. Your mother said you didn’t like it.’
Catherine blushed. ‘I wouldn’t say that—’
‘Too flat for you northerners,’ Tom suggested.
‘Let’s just say, I prefer it here.’
Tom nodded. ‘So do I.’
She looked at him in astonishment. ‘But you’ve only just moved here.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘but I can already tell I’m going to be happy.’
‘Go on.’ Catherine was intrigued. ‘Give me examples.’
‘Walking the Downs - the light on the sea - my job.’ He paused. ‘Getting away from my noisy family - and the snobs at Oxford who look down their noses at scholarship boys.’ He looked at her. ‘I like the people I’ve met.’
Catherine’s heart quickened. He spoke as she felt. Could it be that he was running away from his past too - forging a new identity in this pleasant coastal town?
Before she could ask him any more, the lights went down and the Pathé news came on. Catherine froze, a chocolate halfway to her mouth, at the sight of scores of shabbily dressed men marching in the rain behind banners.
‘The Jarrow Marchers have reached Bradford, where they enjoyed their first hot bath,’ said the commentary. ‘The mayor turned out to greet them, and donations of food have been pouring in for the footsore men. Two medical students are on hand to treat those blisters and a walking barber to keep them looking trim. They’ve come a long way from home - but they’ve got even further to go before reaching London and handing in their petition to the Prime Minister, Mr Baldw
in . . .’
Catherine put back the chocolate, her appetite soured by the sight of their gaunt faces. If her eyes weren’t blurred with tears she might see one that she recognised - men from the New Buildings or the dock gates. Men so desperate for work that they were prepared to march hundreds of miles to London to shame the government into action. Her people. She was filled with a fierce pride, and yet this news spoilt everything. How could she sit back and enjoy a silly romantic film when she knew the marchers would be bedding down on a hard hall floor, clothes damp and stinking, their hungry families left behind to worry and fend for themselves? She could imagine it all too vividly.
The main film began, but she was dangerously close to bursting into tears. She might move to the other end of the country but she could never shake off her past. It would always catch up with her when she least expected it.
Just then, she felt a warm hand cover hers. Tom took her hand and squeezed it gently, as if he guessed her misery. He said nothing, just gave her his shy smile and then turned to watch the film. She let her hand rest in his for several minutes.
After the film, Tom asked, ‘Can I walk you home?’
Catherine felt touched. ‘It’s a long time since a lad’s asked me that,’ she smiled. ‘But it’s quite out of your way.’
‘I like walking.’
‘All right,’ Catherine agreed.
As they walked through the dark, chilly streets they talked about films, which led on to books. She thought to show off her reading knowledge, only to discover that his was far greater. Not only did he know the classics of English literature, but was well read in philosophy, poetry and drama.
‘Didn’t know mathematicians read that much!’ she cried with envy.
‘Always had my head buried in a book,’ he said sheepishly, ‘when Mother thought I should’ve been helping with my younger brothers and sisters.’
‘You were lucky to have books,’ Catherine said, thinking how she had had to make do with penny comics and the rare book from a lodger.
Reaching The Hurst gates, Catherine said on impulse, ‘Come inside for a cup of cocoa - warm you up before your trek down the hill.’
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