Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Thank you,’ Tom agreed at once.

  Bridie was waiting up for her in the kitchen. She looked startled at Tom’s presence.

  Catherine introduced them, then hurried to boil up some milk.

  ‘So how did you meet?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘Through Mrs McDermott,’ Tom answered. ‘I’m in digs there.’

  Bridie exclaimed, ‘Oh, you must be the schoolboy!; Catherine shot her a look, but she went on, ‘That’s what Catherine calls you. And you a teacher! Still, it must be grand for the boys to have someone near their own age.’

  Tom reddened.

  ‘Don’t listen to her.’ Catherine tried to laugh it off. ‘Bridie can be such a tease.’

  Tom smiled uncertainly. ‘Kitty says you come from Ireland?’

  ‘Oh, Kitty, is it?’ Bridie crowed. ‘And what else has Kitty been saying about me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  Her smile died. ‘Well, that’s a surprise - seeing as we’ve been best of friends for six years or more. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about me - or me about her.’

  The brittle look in her blue eyes made Catherine nervous.

  ‘Tom and I are going to take our cocoa into the sitting room,’ Catherine said, messily stirring the hot drinks. ‘You look tired - there’s no need to wait up any longer.’ She plonked the mugs on a tray with a plate of biscuits and nodded at Tom to follow.

  ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Mrs McKim,’ he said.

  Bridie ignored him. ‘I’ll see you upstairs later, Catherine,’ she called after them.

  Catherine hid her irritation at the woman’s rudeness. Thankfully, the sitting room was empty. Putting on the standard lamp and stoking up the fire, she put the tray down on the hearth and flopped beside it.

  Tom was studying the collection of books in the glass-fronted case.

  ‘Trollope! Have you read the Barsetshire novels?’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘Just the one you can see.’

  ‘I’ll lend them to you,’ he enthused. ‘They’re such a good picture of Anglican life.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m Roman Catholic.’ She looked at him, wondering if she would catch that look of disdain.

  He came over and squatted down beside her, his face thoughtful. ‘My father was a verger - but he died when I was a baby. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like had he lived.’

  Catherine held her breath, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘Mother married again. I have a big family and nothing to complain about - but it doesn’t stop me thinking ... I would like to have known him. I feel different from the others.’

  ‘Yes!’ Catherine agreed. ‘Different - that’s it. I’ve a stepfather too. Never knew my real one. It’s like you’re standing in a painting but it’s only half finished - part of it’s missing - and you can never see the full picture no matter how hard you try.’

  ‘Is that why your mother drinks - to try and forget?’

  ‘Drinks?’ Catherine flushed. ‘She doesn’t any more!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Tom said hastily, ‘I shouldn’t have said—’

  Catherine put out a hand quickly and touched him. ‘No, it’s me that’s sorry. Oh, it’s no surprise, but I get so angry. Just when I think she’s off it for good ...! It’s me who’ll have to pick up the pieces again when she drinks herself into debt. She nearly ruined me here—’ She stopped, appalled that she had said so much. Tears stung her eyes. ‘What must you think of me, with a mother like that?’

  Tom took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. ‘I think you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met - so strong and full of life. You’re beautiful and clever and I could go on listening to your voice all night long.’

  Catherine gazed at him in astonishment. What an extraordinary young man he was. Didn’t look like he would say boo to a goose, but could flatter as well as any of the worldly-wise men who had deceived her in the past. Yet she could see from his earnest expression and kind eyes that he meant every word of it.

  Impulsively, she leant towards him and kissed him on the lips. His mouth was firm and warm, and the contact sent a shiver right through her. When she pulled away, she was shaking. Neither of them knew what to say.

  ‘Look, we’ve let the cocoa get cold,’ she said, pushing a mug towards him and hiding behind her own. ‘Tell me more about Trollope.’

  They sat by the fire late into the night, discussing literature and history, arguing about religion and social justice. Tom was a liberal and devoutly Anglican; Catherine believed working people were enslaved by bigotry and ignorance as much as by the bosses.

  ‘There’s no one crueller than the bigot,’ Catherine declared, ‘whether gossiping neighbour or fire-brand priest.’

  ‘But all your priests - even the kind ones - believe Protestants like me are going to Hell.’

  ‘I know, but that doesn’t mean I do.’

  ‘So why do you follow what the priests tell you?’ he challenged.

  ‘Guilt,’ Catherine admitted. ‘I’m not as religious as I was back home - but I can’t stop going. It’s a part of who I am, even though I don’t agree with all they teach.’

  She had never had such a conversation with anyone before, least of all a man. Catherine was excited and stirred by it. There were so many things she wanted to know and discuss. She hid her disappointment when Tom finally stretched his cramped legs and made to leave.

  ‘Can we do this again next Saturday?’ he asked as she showed him out.

  ‘I’d like that,’ Catherine smiled.

  ‘Perhaps we could have tea out before the film?’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’

  It took her a long time that night to get to sleep. Her mind buzzed with their talk.

  In the morning she was exhausted and Bridie critical.

  ‘Don’t know what the guests must think of you, staying up all hours with that boy!’

  ‘He’s not a boy,’ Catherine said irritably.

  ‘He is compared to you. It’s not seemly.’

  ‘We just talked. He’s an interesting man.’

  ‘You don’t want to go getting a reputation,’ Bridie warned darkly.

  Catherine went for a walk to escape. Down at the harbour she watched the waves crashing on to the beach. What would Father John say to her courting an Anglican? What would her grandda have thought? Even Kate might not be best pleased. She felt the sudden weight of tradition pressing down, her mother’s voice telling her not to start something that would only end in trouble or more heartbreak.

  Then she thought of Tom’s deep brown compassionate eyes watching her in the firelight and felt again a tug in her heart. It was worth the risk. Something had flickered into life deep within her the previous evening - something newborn - and she was determined to nurture it.

  Chapter 40

  1937

  Catherine and Tom’s friendship developed quickly. She was impatient for the weekends when they were off work and could meet. Tom had school commitments, including helping with the scouts, so often she was reduced to writing him letters brimming with questions and ideas for them to discuss. To her amazed delight, he seemed just as eager to be in her company, despite the ridicule and jealousy of Bridie and Kate.

  Through the winter they would escape on walks along the cliff paths to Fairlight Glen and its lovers’ seat, or inland to the ruined church of St Helen’s and picnic in the shelter of its overgrown tower. They kissed, but to Catherine’s relief, Tom never pushed her further as other men had tried to do. As spring came, they ventured further afield across the Brede Valley. They talked of the books Tom lent her, of civil war in Spain, of the abdication of the king.

  Catherine was as shocked by King Edward’s sudden departure as most of the country
.

  ‘But to give up everything for that Wallis Simpson - to have to leave his country, his family - it’s a terrible business. He had duties to his country. How could he do it?’

  Tom looked at her and said, ‘He loves her and he can’t manage without her. It’s as simple as that.’

  Catherine shook her head vigorously. ‘It’s a rare man gives up all that power and privilege over one woman - and a twice-divorced woman at that! I don’t understand it.’

  ‘I do,’ Tom said quietly.

  She studied him. ‘But everything was against them - his family, the Prime Minister, the Church. How could he stand up to such pressure?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘His need for her was stronger.’

  ‘It won’t last,’ Catherine said, suddenly depressed by the subject. Tom looked away and she wondered if he was thinking about their situation too.

  She had expected opposition to her deepening relationship with Tom, but not the degree of jealousy and spitefulness that their courtship had unleashed. Bridie did all she could to stop her going out; developing sudden headaches and ailments, arranging for the priest to call when she was due to meet Tom or letting jobs pile up and demanding Catherine’s help.

  To Tom’s face she was downright rude, always referring to him as ‘the schoolboy’ and never using his name.

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you that Catherine’s taller?’ she would jibe. ‘Most men would be.’ Or, ‘How much younger are you? Is it six or seven years? She usually likes them older.’

  Tom never rose to her baiting, just answered her with a strained smile. This infuriated Bridie.

  ‘Don’t know what you see in him,’ she fulminated at Catherine late at night. ‘Hardly strings two words together. A puny little man, that’s what he is.’

  ‘He’s a good sportsman,’ Catherine defended, ‘and a good talker - when he’s given half a chance. Why can’t you be civil to him? It doesn’t cost anything.’

  Then Bridie would change tack. ‘Darling girl, don’t get upset. I’m just trying to stop you making a fool of yourself over this little man. He’s not strong enough for you, Catherine. You’re too full of life. Believe me, if I thought he would make you happy, I’d be the first to give you my blessing. And it’s not just me - people are talking.’

  ‘What people?’ Catherine demanded.

  Bridie looked sorrowful. ‘The guests - our friends - they can see you’re not suited. And the ones from church! You know Father John doesn’t approve. And that nun from the convent you like to chat to - she was round here the other day asking questions.’

  ‘Sister Marguerite?’ Catherine asked, baffled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Wanted to know if it was true you were courting a Protestant.’

  ‘How did she know?’ Catherine reddened.

  ‘People talk.’

  ‘Yes, I bet they do,’ Catherine said with a glare. ‘It’s you stirring up trouble, isn’t it? It’s no business of Sister Marguerite’s or the priest’s who I go out with!’

  ‘That’s not how Father John sees it. You’re endangering your mortal soul, carrying on with a Protestant, that’s what he and the nuns at the convent think.’ Bridie held out her arms. ‘Poor darling girl. It’s just your bad luck to fall in love with an Anglican. You could never marry him. You do see that, don’t you?’

  While Bridie’s opposition was relentless at home, Kate was being difficult too. Catherine suspected that Tom did not report half of what went on, but he let slip the odd comment. Kate’s drinking was on the increase again. She had asked him for his rent early and a loan to pay the gas bill. Letters that Catherine had sent had not been received.

  When she went round to Maritime Place, there was an air of neglect. The rooms were dusty and washing-up was piled high in the sink. One time she caught Tom washing his own sheets in the bath.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Catherine stormed into the kitchen to find Kate nursing a cup of tea. ‘Since when have the lodgers had to do their own washing?’

  Kate waved a hand. ‘That fussy little man. Said I’d wash them tomorra.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Friday. You always wash on Mondays,’ Catherine snapped. ‘You’ll lose your business if you carry on like this. And don’t expect me to bail you out again.’

  Kate gave her a bleak unfocused look.

  ‘No, you don’t care what happens to me. You’ll gan off with your fancy boy and leave me to rot. I’ll end up in that workhouse of yours and then you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘So that’s what this is all about - me and Tom? You can’t bear the thought of us being happy. You’d rather have me at your beck and call for ever than see me settled with a decent man!’

  ‘ ‘S not true.’ Kate got up, swaying. ‘Always done what’s best for you. You cannot marry him - he’s not one of us - be a sin. Saving you from makin’ a big mistake.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Catherine said in disgust, grabbing the cup from Kate. She sniffed it. ‘It’s more whisky than tea.’

  ‘Give it back!’ Kate cried, lunging forward. ‘My house, I’ll do as I please.’

  As they grappled over the cup, Tom walked in.

  ‘Please, don’t fight,’ he said with a look of horror.

  The cup dropped between them and smashed on the unswept floor, splashing Catherine’s best shoes.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Kate accused them both.

  Tom bent down and began to pick up the pieces.

  ‘You’ll have to buy me a new one,’ Kate ordered. ‘Wouldn’t have been arguing if it hadn’t been for you, Tom Cookson. Everything was champion till you came.’

  Catherine waited for Tom to answer back, give Kate a mouthful. If she had been spoken to like that, she’d be marching out of the lodgings there and then. But Tom said nothing, just carried on sweeping up the mess.

  Suddenly Catherine was angry with him. ‘Stop, Tom! Let her do it.’

  He looked up puzzled. ‘I don’t mind—’

  ‘Well, you should do!’ she blazed. ‘Why do you put up with it? You let her treat you like dirt. Bridie’s right: you’re not man enough. How can I expect you to stand up for me if you won’t even stand up for yourself!’

  Catherine stormed out of the house. Later, after she had calmed down, she was filled with remorse at her outburst. Tom did not deserve her sharp tongue; she was hateful for taking out her frustration with Kate and Bridie on him.

  She wrote him a note of apology, but heard nothing back. She felt wretched all week.

  It was May, and Tom had started coaching cricket. On Saturday afternoons he umpired games. Catherine went along to the school grounds and hung about outside, summoning the courage to go in.

  She slipped in the gates behind a couple of schoolboys and followed them. Standing under a large canopy of cherry blossom away from the other spectators she observed the game. Tom was umpiring at one end, serious with concentration. She sat in the grass and watched. This was where he was happy, she could see that. The tranquillity and order of the cricket pitch, the athleticism and endeavour of young people. Tom looked at one with the scene. When they broke for tea, she saw how he smiled and chatted to the boys and how they gravitated towards him. He was their role model.

  Catherine felt a deep pang of longing and regret. How could she compete with this other world? She was too ill-educated to fit into his circle of academics. And what could she offer him? A life of turmoil among those who resented him for being young and intellectual, for not being Catholic. Catherine walked away, tears stinging her eyes.

  ‘Kitty!’

  She turned at the gate, heart leaping at the sound of Tom’s voice.

  ‘You came to watch.’ He smiled quizzically.

  ‘I wanted to say sorry,’ Catherine said, swallowing tears.

  ‘I thought you’d had enough of m
e, when you didn’t answer my telephone calls.’

  ‘What calls?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘Bridie took them.’

  ‘Oh, Bridie!’ Catherine said crossly. ‘She never said.’

  ‘No, I was stupid to think she would.’ Tom looked forlorn.

  Catherine stepped towards him. ‘No, you’re too trusting,’ she corrected. ‘You always think the best of folk - that’s your trouble.’

  ‘Is there any hope for us, Kitty?’ he asked quietly.

  Catherine threw her arms around him. ‘Yes, yes there is. You must believe it.’

  ***

  Stubbornly, they went on seeing each other throughout the summer term. It provoked Bridie into open war on Tom. She put about a rumour that Catherine was seeking to make her and Maisie homeless, in order to move Tom in. Some of the lodgers were openly disapproving, believing Bridie rather than Catherine, who was seldom there to defend herself. Bridie embarrassed Tom with tales of Catherine attracting married men. ‘Always goes for the unsuitable ones - can’t help herself. It’s me who keeps her on the straight and narrow. Has she told you the scandal she caused at the tennis club?’

  When Tom asked her about Maurice, Catherine forced out of him what Bridie had said. She was furious and hurt at the attempts to ruin her reputation.

  ‘Maurice wasn’t married - and the other men resented me for being successful and a woman.’

  Tom insisted it made no difference, but Catherine knew once doubts were sown it was difficult not to dwell on them. Catherine hardly trusted herself to speak to Bridie and made up a bed in the billiard room rather than be near her at night. She was not going to let her ruin things with Tom.

  Visits from the priest and nuns from the convent became ever more frequent as Bridie whipped up opposition to Catherine’s consorting with a non-Catholic. But when none of this put a stop to the romance, Bridie set aside her resentment of Kate, and went to enlist her help in wrecking it.

  ‘We can’t have Catherine throwing away her career and independence for a pipsqueak like him,’ Bridie declared. ‘She wants me out of the house, I’m sure of it. She’d throw me and Maisie on to the street for that man.’