A Child of Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Kate stepped out into the street alone. There was no one to see her off at the station, not even Jack. Since the time she had been ill after Catherine’s birth, he had steered clear of her, avoiding her look, hardly speaking two words. He blushed when she came near him and flinched from her touch as if she was somehow contaminated. Maybe it was just a young lad’s squeamishness about childbirth and feeding. Or maybe it was she who now revolted him. All Kate knew was that she seemed to have lost her former ally.

  On the train, she managed to stem the tears of loneliness that welled in her throat, but when she passed through Lamesley station and the brown harvested fields around Ravensworth, she broke down and quietly wept. That place had been paradise, but how long ago it all seemed! Where was Alexander now? Happily married? Living nearby or far away? She tortured herself with such thoughts.

  All she knew from Mary was that he had never been back to the inn. He had disappeared into thin air. If there had been any rumours about him, she knew her sister would have delighted in telling her. Since her disgrace, Mary had lorded it over her on her visits home, making out she was far the better daughter. But there had been no rumours and no news of the coal agent’s son.

  Staring, heartbroken, at the burnished woods around the castle, Kate felt a ridiculous flicker of hope. If he had married, surely news would have trickled through to the inn? And if he had not, then what was to stop him returning for her one day? Perhaps when his father was dead . . .

  She stifled such thoughts. If he had loved her at all, he would have come for her by now. If he had been any sort of gentleman, he would at least have provided for his bastard child. Kate looked away. It was too painful to hope. All she could do was to make the best of her new position and provide for her child herself. Maybe some day she would find a man with a kind heart to take them both on. Unlikely as it seemed, Kate felt a twinge of optimism as she thought of starting anew in Chester-le-Street. She was still young and strong and willing to work.

  By the time she stepped down from the train at the Durham market town, no one would know from her ready smile and brisk walk that she carried the weight of the world on her young shoulders, or guess that anything troubled her at all.

  ***

  To her surprise, Kate found herself enjoying her new job. The baker, Slater, was a bluff, kindly man, and his wife and young family were friendly. The three children took quickly to Kate’s warm personality and sense of fun, and the parents were happy with her capacity for hard work. She cooked, cleaned and for them, scrubbed down the shop in the evenings and got up in the icy mornings to light the fires.

  Towards Christmas, when they were especially busy in the shop, Kate helped out behind the counter. She was cheerful to the customers and did not complain at the long hours. Only at night, in the attic room she shared with the youngest daughter, did she allow herself to think of Catherine and muffle her weeping under the blanket. She fingered her baby’s soft lock of hair for comfort and clutched the worn paper package as she fell asleep.

  As December came, she began to look forward to seeing her daughter again, although she could not talk about it to her employers.

  ‘I’ve a baby sister,’ she explained to Mrs Slater, having let slip Catherine’s name. ‘She’s bonny - just starting to smile when I left. She’ll be crawling by now, I wouldn’t wonder - bright as a button.’

  ‘Bet she’s a handful for your mother,’ Mrs Slater said, with a side-long look. ‘Strange, calling her Catherine.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, with you being named Kate as well.’

  Kate went red. ‘Me mam likes the name. And the bairn’s called Catherine Ann.’ She turned away and busied herself with the ironing. She must stop herself prattling on about Catherine, else the woman might guess the truth. She was fairly certain no gossip about what had gone on at Ravensworth had reached down here, but it was as well to be cautious. Kate did not mention Catherine again, but as Christmas drew nearer, her excitement mounted at seeing her once more. She could not wait to see what her daughter looked like after the two long months of separation.

  On Boxing Day, the Slaters filled up a large box of bread, cake, pies and groceries for her to take home. They had told her to take two days off for working so hard.

  ‘You’ve been a grand help,’ Mr Slater told her. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Hope the baby’s well,’ Mrs Slater said with an encouraging smile. ‘But come back to us, won’t you? The girls won’t forgive us if you don’t.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Kate replied, ‘you’re that good to me.’

  She caught the train to Gateshead, meeting up with Mary on the way. Kate steeled herself for the stop at Lamesley, but the thought of seeing Catherine again eased her discomfort at the familiar landmarks of church and inn and distant castle towers.

  ‘I’ve bought her a rattle and her own spoon,’ Kate told Mary in excitement. ‘And a blanket for her cot.’

  ‘Thought Mam was to get your wages?’ Mary said pointedly.

  ‘I’m just providing for the bairn like they want me to,’ Kate defended.

  ‘Well, so you should. I’m glad I don’t have to hand over all my wages.’ She gave a superior look. ‘What you got in there?’

  ‘Cake and that from the bakery,’ Kate said proudly, ‘for all me hard work. That should please them at home.’

  Mary sniffed. ‘It’ll take more than that for you to please them after what you did.’

  Kate felt dashed. Mary was probably right. A mountain of bakery wouldn’t let her parents forget the disgrace she had brought under their roof. Well, at least her own bairn would be pleased to see her, Kate thought with spirit.

  She was out of her seat before the train pulled into Tyne Dock station and throwing open the carriage door as it squealed to a stop.

  ‘Haway, Mary,’ she cried with impatience as they made their way through the town. ‘Do you have to look in every shop window?’

  ‘I’ve been stuck in Lamesley, remember?’ Mary retorted. ‘Not a proper shop for miles.’

  Kate bustled ahead, her parcel from the Slaters weighing heavy in her arms. Some of the windows they passed were strung with colourful decorations and her excitement increased. She loved Christmas. Even when they had been small and there were hardly two pennies to rub together, Rose had always tried to find some treat to put in their stockings. She wondered what her mother had bought for Catherine for her first Christmas.

  Reaching Learn Lane at last, they clattered breathlessly through the front door.

  ‘We’re back, Mam!’ Kate called, rushing into the kitchen.

  John was sitting in his chair by the fire, smoking. Rose was setting the table.

  ‘Where’s Catherine?’ she asked at once. ‘Where’s me little lass?’

  She followed her mother’s look and saw her daughter sitting on the hearth rug waving a wooden spoon. She was neatly dressed in a blue serge smock, her auburn baby hair glinting in the firelight. Kate dumped down her parcels and hurried towards her, arms outstretched.

  ‘What a picture!’ she cried. ‘Come to Mammy and give me a big love!’

  She bent down and seized the child, swinging her up into her arms.

  ‘Mind you don’t crease her dress,’ Rose warned.

  ‘Let me look at you, bonny Catherine.’ Kate ignored the plea. ‘Eeh, how I’ve missed you!’ She squeezed Catherine to her and smothered her in kisses. Her cheeks felt so soft and warm, her skin smelling of soap and milk. She buried her nose into the baby’s neck.

  ‘Stop fussin’ over her,’ John complained, banging his pipe on the hearth beside them.

  Catherine flinched at the noise and let out a wail of protest.

  ‘There, there,’ Kate soothed her, kissing her again. But her daughter screamed louder as she eyed Kate in alarm. Kate bounced her in her arms. ‘Now, now
, Catherine, don’t fret, Mammy’s got you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t call her that,’ Rose scolded, stepping round the table. Catherine caught sight of the older woman and flung out her arms to her. Kate could feel her small body strain away from her with surprising strength.

  Rose bustled over and claimed the baby. ‘She’s not used to you. Shoosh now, Kitty!’

  Within seconds, Catherine’s strident crying subsided as she nestled into Rose’s protective hold.

  ‘It was the banging, not me.’ Kate put out a hand to touch her.

  But Catherine’s eyes widened in fear at the stranger. She buried her head into Rose’s broad shoulder and refused to look at Kate. Kate gulped back tears of disappointment.

  ‘She’ll come round,’ Rose said more gently. ‘Won’t you, Kitty? This is our Kate. She’s come to see you.’

  Kate felt swamped by a wave of jealousy. Catherine looked so content in Rose’s arms. She didn’t even remember her! Two short months and her daughter had forgotten her. Her smell, the sound of her voice, her kisses meant nothing to Catherine any more. Or to Kitty, as her mother kept irritatingly calling her.

  ‘What you call her Kitty for?’ Kate could not hide her annoyance. ‘Sounds like a cat.’

  ‘Catherine’s too much of a mouthful for a bairn this size,’ Rose said bluntly. ‘Tak your coats off, lasses, and help me serve up the dinner.’

  She plonked Catherine on to the hearth again. The baby bleated in complaint but Rose ignored her whimpering. Kate was too wary to pick her up again.

  ‘What you got in that box?’ John asked. ‘Open it up and let’s have a look.’

  Kate smothered her hurt feelings. ‘I’ve got a canny lot of food from the shop - they’re kind, the Slaters.’ She pulled the string and opened up the parcel.

  The others crowded round to see as the smell of fresh baking was released.

  ‘That’ll do us for the rest of the week,’ Rose said in satisfaction. ‘Got your pay an’ all?’

  Kate nodded, digging into her coat pocket and handing over a brown paper bag of money. Rose emptied it out on to the table and counted it.

  ‘There’s a bit short,’ she said in suspicion.

  Kate flushed. ‘I bought a few bits for the bairn - Christmas presents.’

  ‘For the bairn?’ John barked. ‘The little bugger doesn’t know if it’s Christmas or Easter.’

  ‘I’ll buy her things if I want to!’ Kate replied hotly.

  ‘Not with wages that should come to us,’ he snapped back. ‘Your mam’ll decide what gets spent on the bairn, not you.’

  Kate was furious. She looked at her mother for support, but Rose shook her head. She did not want to take on a fight with John. Or maybe she agreed with him that Kate should have no money of her own to fritter on her daughter.

  ‘Help Mary put the pies in the pantry,’ Rose said, busying herself with gathering up the money. Reaching up to the battered tin on the mantelpiece, she stuffed it in and replaced the lid firmly. Kate’s wages now belonged to the household. She would have to beg her mother for enough to buy soap and boot polish for the coming month.

  She ground her teeth with the humiliation of it all and did as her mother told her. Shortly afterwards Jack appeared, slinking in quietly at the back door, glancing at them warily and grunting a greeting, which Mary ignored.

  They sat down to a meal of rabbit and braised vegetables, though Kate had lost her appetite and had to force down each mouthful. She watched while Rose fed spoonfuls of watery gravy and mashed potato to Catherine. The child stared back at Kate with cautious eyes. Afterwards Rose removed her to the bedroom for a sleep and Kate did not see her again for hours.

  As it grew dark, she walked Mary back to the train and was half tempted to jump on board and go back to the Slaters that night. But she cheered herself with the thought that Catherine might allow her to hold her once she grew used to her face again. She returned to find Rose washing the baby in a small basin of water in front of the fire. Jack had disappeared and John was sitting in his chair with a fresh jug of beer warming on the hearth.

  ‘Let me help you, Mam,’ Kate said eagerly, kneeling down beside them.

  ‘I can manage,’ Rose replied. ‘You can get the tea on.’

  ‘I’m still full from dinner,’ Kate protested.

  ‘Do as your mam says,’ John growled.

  Reluctantly, Kate stood up. How she longed to touch the soft, plump skin and splash her daughter in play. She sounded so contented, gurgling as the warm water ran over her. Kate felt a pang of envy as she went to fetch one of Slater’s pies and warm it in the oven. By the time she had finished, Catherine was swaddled and ready for bed. Rose whisked her away into the bedroom. It was obvious she did not want Kate near the child. She was to be her big sister, nothing more intimate. Perhaps Rose believed Kate’s badness might be passed on to her daughter if she had too much to do with her. Kate’s hopes of two happy days with Catherine disintegrated like ash in the grate.

  Jack appeared again just in time for tea, like an animal scenting food. He eyed her as he slipped into his seat, but said nothing. Afterwards, she was left to clear up while Rose went to bed early.

  ‘I get tired with the bairn,’ she said, with a look that told Kate it was her fault.

  Jack sprawled on the hearth reading an old newspaper, while John supped his way through the jug of beer. When that was finished, he roused Jack with a kick and told him to fetch another jugful.

  ‘Mam said that was to be your last,’ he muttered.

  John kicked him again. ‘Don’t listen to her, you nancy-boy. Get up and do what I tell you! Tak some money from the tin.’

  Jack jumped to his feet and went out scowling with a coin from Kate’s wages. Kate sat down on the settle with a sigh. She could not go to bed until they did, and now her stepfather was in for one of his drinking sessions.

  When Jack returned, John turned to Kate and said, ‘You can stop your sighing and fetch another cup.’

  ‘Who for?’ Kate said irritably.

  ‘You,’ John answered, with a sly look. ‘And one for the lad for fetching the beer. We’ll all sit and have a drink together and a bit sing-song.’

  Kate knew it was best to humour him, so did as he asked. She poured out three cups of the dark ale and nursed hers while watching the men knock theirs back. John wiped his mouth and stared at her.

  ‘Haway, get it down your neck. Tak the twisty look off your face.’

  Kate sipped. It tasted bitter on her tongue.

  ‘And again,’ he ordered.

  She took a longer swig. It frothed in her mouth, leaving a malty taste, more pleasant than the first. She took another. A warm feeling spread through her stomach. She drank again and realised the cup was empty.

  John laughed and thumped the table. ‘That’s it, lass! Knew you’d like it. Makes your troubles fly out the door. Pour us another.’

  Kate glanced at Jack and saw that his cup was empty too. They eyed each other and he nodded like a fellow conspirator. Best to keep the old drunkard happy, the look said. She filled up their cups.

  After a few more swigs, she began to feel content, even merry. Her head was pleasantly fuzzy. It had just been a temporary setback with the baby. Tomorrow she would be full of smiles for her real mother. Kate would cuddle her and spoon her meals with the second-hand horn spoon she had bought her and bask in her daughter’s smiles.

  ‘Give us a song, lass!’ John ordered, sloshing more beer into her empty cup.

  Before long, Kate was singing her heart out. Irish and north country ballads, popular music-hall songs. The words poured out of her like a river bursting its banks. She had not sung like this for an age - not since Ravensworth.

  It was a blessed release. Kate had a vague recollection of more beer being fetched and more songs s
ung, until Rose banged on the wall and shouted at them to stop or they’d wake the baby. But they carried on, until the songs became maudlin and Kate could no longer sing for crying.

  By the time she and Jack managed to frog-march John to his bed, the fire had almost died out. Kate stumbled back into the kitchen and collapsed on to the settle, her head spinning as she lay. She closed her eyes to stop the room moving. She couldn’t remember why she had been crying. Her mind was blanketed in alcohol, her thoughts woolly. The next moment she was deep in sleep and nothing mattered at all.

  Chapter 36

  June 1912

  Peering out of the train window, Kate could just make out the dockside warehouses, but the river was hidden by a sea fret. She had left Chester-le-Street in bright sunshine, wearing a thin cotton lavender dress and a broad hat with large purple bow to match that Mrs Slater had given her.

  ‘You look bonny,’ the baker’s wife had told her that morning, loading her up with a cake and scones. ‘You enjoy your day off.’

  She had asked for this Thursday off because it was Catherine’s sixth birthday. Kate was coming home as a surprise with a cake and a length of pale blue ribbon for Catherine’s long chestnut hair. She had saved up the train fare from the small amount her mother allowed her to keep each month since John and Jack were in regular work at the docks once more.

  Several years of slump had hit Tyneside while Kate worked away. Old Charles Palmer, whose shipbuilding and steel empire employed most of Jarrow in the boom times, was dead. There had been strikes over reduced wages and scrapping over what little work there was. For two years hardly a ship was launched from Palmer’s, and the McMullens had only survived on the wages and food Kate brought home. Not that she got a word of thanks, she thought bitterly. As far as her parents were concerned, it was her duty and her penance. She would provide for her daughter, even though she was forbidden to be a mother.

  In the early days, when she appeared on rare days off, Catherine would totter towards her and hold out her arms, squealing, ‘Kate! Kate!’ Kate would grab the small girl and swing her round in a boisterous embrace. But Rose was always there to snatch her back.