In triumph Catherine spilt the pawnbroker’s money on to the table.
‘I got twelve and sixpence!’
‘Good lass,’ Kate grinned in relief. ‘I knew you’d spin a good yarn. Here’s a halfpenny to keep.’
After that Kate often resorted to keeping her daughter off school for the pawnshop trips. She would rather face the truancy officer than the county court judge any day. And Catherine was sensible and independent for her years. As Rose said, ‘She’s got an old head on young shoulders.’ Kate had her running errands all over the place, even to the Alkali or the Penny Whistle with the ‘grey hen’.
‘Gan and fetch some beer, hinny,’ Kate would say without looking round. For at times Catherine’s look could turn mutinous. Her daughter had grown pious since going to the school in Jarrow where they seemed to teach nothing but retribution for the sins of the parents. Kate knew Catherine disapproved of her drinking, but she would not be made to feel guilty. If she only knew the half of it! She had been driven to drink and it was partly Catherine’s fault.
Sometimes, when she caught sight of her daughter staggering back up the hill with the heavy jar, slopping beer on to her boots, Kate felt pangs of remorse. Perhaps she was too hard on the child. What right had she to take out her anger at the world on the lass? But it was a cruel world. She fended for Catherine as best she could like any mother, yet she received none of the love and respect that a mother should. Rose still got that. So Kate smothered her feelings of pity and drank deeply from the grey hen.
In July, to Kate’s delight, Jack’s sailor friends, Stoddie and Davie, returned from a year at sea. John seemed to have forgotten the jealous brawl over Kate that had precipitated their departure the previous summer and was pleased to have new drinking companions.
After an evening of eating and drinking and tales of their trip to South America, John decreed, ‘You can kip here the night. Kate and the lass can give up their bed.’
The seamen ended up staying for the week, spending their pay freely on the household and slipping Kate extra for pickles and tinned fruit and a piece of brisket for the Sunday dinner. She enjoyed having them around the house. Stoddie made her laugh with his jokes and banter, while quiet brawny Davie helped carry in coal and kept the fire stoked.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Kate smiled.
‘Maybe not,’ Davie gave a bashful look of his brown eyes, ‘but it’s done.’
At night they had long sing-songs, with Stoddie playing on the harmonica. Catherine would watch them cautiously from the doorway and resist Kate’s attempts to get her to perform.
‘Give us one of your poems, Kitty,’ Kate cried. ‘She’s got a grand voice.’
‘Just like her bonny big sister,’ Stoddie winked.
Kate blushed with pleasure. At least with these men she could pretend to be respectable.
‘Haway, lassie, give us a song,’ Stoddie encouraged.
After several nights of coaxing, Catherine was persuaded. She stood in front of the fire and recited part of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The applause was so loud, she grinned and sang ‘Sweet Waters of Tyne’. For twenty minutes she went through her repertoire, playing up to her merry audience, dancing on the hearth, her pretty face lively.
‘You’ve a star there, John,’ Stoddie cried, and stamped his feet in approval.
‘Aye, head’s full of stories and nonsense too,’ John grunted. But he smiled at the girl, pleased.
‘Now it’s Kate’s turn,’ Stoddie grinned. ‘She sings like a wee nightingale.’
Kate felt a pang. No one since Alexander had ever said that to her. She smiled at him and stood up to sing. Soon she was lost in the words and the music. This was the closest she came to true happiness, the room silenced and the music welling up from the depths of her being.
Afterwards, Kate felt bathed in a warm glow of wellbeing and wished such moments could go on for ever, the cares of the day quite forgotten. She noticed how Catherine had crept on to the knee of the gentle Davie, her sleepy head lolling against his broad chest. He seemed to have a way with children, though he had none of his own.
She wished her daughter had chosen Stoddie’s lap, for she was aware that her own feelings for the handsome sailor were growing. If only something could come of it, he might be the man to give Catherine a proper father.
But in the morning they left.
‘Gone back to Cumbria,’ Jack told her. ‘Davie’s got a wife, remember, and Stoddie’s a lass in every port. There’s nowt to keep them here.’
Kate flushed. It struck her that Jack might be jealous of his friends. They were experienced men who had travelled the world and were confident with women. Jack was none of these. He was awkward and shy. He admired the older men, yet seemed to resent the attention they gave to Kate. She was saddled with his protective jealousy as much as John’s vindictiveness. What chance did she have of walking out with Jock Stoddart?
Then events far beyond Jarrow shook them all out of their daily troubles. The threat of war rumbling in Europe suddenly sparked into reality. In early August the newspapers blared the news that Austria had declared war on Serbia, followed days later by Germany waging war on Russia and France.
‘Read it to me, lass,’ John ordered Kate. They were gathered around the table for tea.
‘ “Herbert Asquith, the Prime Minister, was loudly cheered as he gave MPs details of the ul-ti-ma-tum calling on Germany to respect the neutrality of Belgium”,’ Kate read.
‘What’s ultimatum mean?’ Catherine piped up.
Jack answered excitedly, ‘It means if the Hun gan into Belgium we’ll fight ‘em.’
‘Where is Belgium?’ the girl asked. ‘Is it near Shields?’
‘No, Kitty,’ Kate reassured, ‘it’s a long way away.’
‘Aye, but the Hun are just across the German Sea,’ John said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. ‘They could be sailing up the Tyne in hours.’
Catherine’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Shall I gan and look, Da?’
He snorted in amusement. ‘Not yet, lass. We’re not at war the day.’
But by the next, news spread that Germany had marched into Belgium. People went out into the streets as word went round that war had been declared.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Jack cried with glee at his father. ‘Said we’d have a scrap on our hands.’
‘Well, don’t you go thinking of taking the King’s shillin’,’ Rose fretted. ‘You’re needed here.’
Jack made for the door. ‘I’m off out to see what’s happening.’
‘Can I come an’ all?’ Catherine asked, jumping up.
‘Haway then,’ Jack agreed, and she ran out after him.
She came back looking puzzled. ‘They’ve not come yet.’
‘Who haven’t?’ John demanded.
‘The Germans. I went down the Slacks to have a look, but there’s no soldiers.’
John laughed. ‘Course not, you daft lass.’
‘When will it start?’ Catherine persisted.
‘What start?’ John grew impatient at the questioning.
‘The war. Doesn’t look like it’s started to me.’
John just shook his head and laughed.
Kate tried to reassure her. ‘We’ll see nowt different round here. The war’s a world away - ‘cross the English Channel.’
But the long hot days of August did bring changes around the town. Troops marched into Tyne Dock one day and arrested the hapless crew of a ship, the Albert Clement, that had sailed in from the White Sea with timber. Each Saturday, bands played through the town and posters were slapped to baking brick walls, encouraging men to join up. The sight of men in uniform became common as every workplace, sporting club and social group scrambled to form a company of volunteers.
A wave of patrio
tism swept Tyneside and the mood was optimistic.
‘We’ll have ‘em beat by Christmas,’ Jack crowed.
John shook his head. ‘Na. It’ll gan on a lot longer. It’s never over quick - I know all about war.’
‘Aye, war in the Dark Ages,’ Jack scoffed. ‘But we’ve got the best fleet in the world and modern guns and that.’
John snorted, ‘And the same old generals that don’t know their arse from their elbows.’
The arguments erupted every evening like summer storms. As well as John’s pessimism over the war, he became fixated about German spies.
‘That butcher down Tyne Dock, he’s one,’ he declared.
Kate laughed. ‘Gebhart? He sounds Geordie to me when he opens his gob.’
‘That’s ‘cos he’s a spy,’ John replied with conviction. ‘They’re clever like that.’
Rose was dismissive. ‘He’s been there as long as I can remember. Don’t think he’s even been to Germany.’
‘What would you know?’ John snapped. He grabbed hold of Kate’s arm. ‘I don’t want you buying owt from that foreigner, you hear?’
Kate threw off his hold. ‘Chance would be a fine thing! Can’t even afford the scraps off the floor.’
‘Well, I’m tellin’ ye,’ he growled.
Later, when Kate was helping Rose to bed, they laughed about his suspicions. ‘Daft bugger,’ Rose whispered, ‘doesn’t even trust his own shadow.’
But when the shock news of defeat and retreat from Mons filtered back, there were outbreaks of violence against businesses and people who sounded German. Windows were smashed and shops set on fire by roaming mobs. Men like Gebhart, who had lived in the town for years, were rounded up and taken away, no one knew quite where. But it pleased John.
By September, there was no more talk of the war being over by Christmas, only an increase in recruitment posters. Everyone would have recognised Lord Kitchener had they passed him in the street. Scores of men were volunteering daily; so many that local councils were giving over schools and public buildings for barracks to house the flood of eager recruits. Rose grew increasingly anxious Jack would do something foolhardy, while John took pleasure in baiting his son.
‘He’s not got the stomach for real fightin’. Anyone can scrap on a Saturday night round Jarrow.’
Then, unexpectedly, Stoddie strolled in one day dressed in the uniform of the Tyneside Scottish.
‘What you doing here?’ Kate cried in delight. ‘And look at you! You suit a uniform.’ She blushed as he pinched her cheek.
‘About to board ship when I ran into a couple of the boys. Had a few bevvies and the next thing we’re doon the recruiting office.’
A place was quickly set for him at the tea table.
‘So why aren’t you in barracks?’ Jack asked, his look envious.
‘They’re overcrowded,’ Stoddie grinned. ‘Giving us two shilling a day extra for bed and board. So thought I’d stay here a week or two.’
‘Course you can,’ Kate said quickly.
Within two days of Stoddie’s appearance, Jack plucked up courage to defy his mother and join up. He had been roaring drunk at the time, according to Stoddie, who was on the same drinking binge. So drunk was Jack that he gave his place of birth as Tyne Dock instead of Jarrow. But he joined the Durham Light Infantry, his father’s old regiment, which provoked unaccustomed praise.
‘Good on you, lad! You’ve got some of your father’s Irish spirit after all. It’ll make a man of ye!’
Rose was only mollified by the thought that he had to live at home for the time being until proper training camps were found. Jack took a new delight in polishing his own boots and strutting around the streets in his new uniform, attracting admiring glances from neighbours who had teased or ignored him for years.
Kate was secretly pleased at the development, for some day soon Jack would have to leave home. In the meantime she enjoyed the mellow late summer days with Stoddie returning from drill and walking her to the end of the lane and back, with the excuse of looking for firewood. Usually Jack tagged along too, like an unwanted stray. Only on Stoddie’s last night did he slip out of the pub early and come back to see Kate.
They stood at the end of the street gazing down on the mass of shipping on the river. The yards were working to capacity and there was talk of bringing in men from the south to fill the jobs left by the thousands who had already joined up.
‘What time do you leave the morrow?’ Kate asked quietly.
‘Train goes at ten.’
‘Are you going to France?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ Kate murmured.
‘I’ll miss you too.’ He took hold of her hand. ‘Kate, will you be my lassie?’
Kate held her breath. Was he proposing to her? She did not dare speak, for fear she was assuming more than he meant. She waited.
‘Can I write to you, Kate?’
‘Aye, I’d like that,’ she smiled cautiously. ‘But it might be best if you sent any letters to Mary’s at Number Thirty. It’s just Father - and you being Presbyterian. Mary’ll pass them on to me.’
‘If you want,’ Stoddie agreed amiably. ‘And you’ll write back?’
‘Of course,’ she said quickly.
‘That’s grand,’ he grinned. He put an arm around her shoulders and plonked a beery kiss on her cheek. And that was how it was left, with Kate hoping more than knowing that Stoddie was her intended.
Chapter 41
1915
When King George visited Jarrow in May to view Palmer’s works, and the streets were choked with crowds come to gaze on their distant monarch, Kate stood in a queue for flour all morning and missed it.
Catherine came tearing in after school. ‘They let us go and watch. We got union flags to wave. I think I saw him riding in this big black motorcar, though maybes it was the mayor. Any road, I waved and he waved back - right at me,’ she smiled, glowing with pride.
‘What you want to see him for?’ John ridiculed.
‘He’s the King,’ Catherine answered reprovingly. ‘I wish I could see his palace and ride in that big motorcar,’ she added wistfully.
John spat into the fire. ‘Down with kings and freedom for the Irish, say I!’
Kate gave the girl a look as if to say, don’t bother what he thinks. ‘Here, hinny,’ she said out loud, ‘I got a bit ginger powder from Afleck’s the day, you can help me make gingerbread men. We’ll give one a crown and call him George, eh?’
Catherine smiled and rolled up her sleeves.
As the evening sun glowed a furnace orange over the opposite row, Catherine sat on the fender munching their baking while Rose darned a stocking and Kate read aloud from the Shields Gazette to John. It was one of those rare moments of peace that settled on the household when bellies were full and tempers calm. Jack had at last moved into barracks - a converted school - and came home more seldom. He was on coastal watch from Shields down to Whitburn, a more dangerous job since surprise attacks along the east coast had shaken them all. Hartlepool had been bombed from the sea. The war was no longer far away but lapping at their door. Still, arguments were rarer without him there and he seemed happier than he had been for years on occasional visits home.
The continuing war in Flanders had also given John a new interest outside the confines of William Black Street and he was avid for any scraps of news.
‘It says here they’re wanting lasses at the shell factory,’ Kate said casually. ‘Short of workers. Listen to this. “The Government has issued an urgent appeal to the women of Britain to serve their country by signing on for war work. The aim is to get as many women as possible doing vital jobs so that men can be freed for fighting.” ‘ Kate slid her stepfather a cautious look.
‘You’re not ganin’ to work in a
factory.’ John was adamant.
‘Why not?’ Kate protested. ‘They pay canny wages - much better than I can get cleaning.’
‘They don’t mean lasses like you.’ John was disparaging. ‘They want young ‘uns. Ones that don’t have a bairn to look after.’ He gave her a sour look.
‘I could work while the bairn’s at school,’ Kate reasoned.
‘They’ll want you at all hours of the night and day. And who’s ganin’ to get your mother up in the night? Or make the dinner?’ John shook his head. ‘No, no. You’re not ganin’ to work in no factory. Full of foremen from the south takin’ all the best jobs and tryin’ to steal our lasses an’ all.’
Kate clenched the newspaper in anger. All he thought about was his own comfort and keeping her away from other men. He did not care if it meant she could manage the housekeeping more easily, or that she might have some money of her own to spend how she wanted. On a little bit of drink. How she craved a drink now. But even John’s compensation was running out and the only time she tasted liquor was when Jack came back and slipped her a few pennies.
She choked back words of protest, knowing it would only make him the more intransigent. Kate’s look fell on Catherine’s auburn ringlets. They glinted with copper lights just like Alexander’s. The girl was writing in an exercise book that Jack had pinched for her from the school where he was billeted. It reminded her abruptly of Alexander, head bent over his sketch book, totally absorbed. It was too painful.
‘Kitty, off to bed!’ she said sharply.
Catherine looked up, startled.
‘What you writing all them daft words for?’ Kate cried, venting her anger. ‘You’ll give yoursel’ a headache. And no one’s ganin’ to read them!’
Her daughter’s expression tightened, but she said nothing. She rose, tucking the book under her arm, and stalked off to the bedroom without a word of good night.
A Child of Jarrow Page 35