A Child of Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Kate felt wretched for her harsh words, but the resentment curdled inside her. Catherine was like an ache in her side, forever reminding her of her shameful mistake and her deeply buried yearning for the man she had loved. She loved and hated the child as keenly as she did Alexander. Where was he now? Despite the passing years she still wondered about him and what might have been. Did he have other children? Had he enlisted? Was he still alive? So many of the officer class had already been slaughtered on the battlefields of Flanders, according to the long lists of casualties in the newspapers. But she had never spotted his name.

  Kate busied herself banking up the fire and tidying the room for the night. Only tiring activity kept such tortured thoughts at bay. She berated herself for even thinking of Alexander. The evenings were long now, but they still had to pull the new blackout blinds against the threat of Zeppelin raids. As John sat and watched her helping her mother to bed, Kate determined that her only chance of escape was with Stoddie.

  He had written twice from France; short, cheerful, precious letters that Mary had brought round. She had written back, scrounging the postage from Mary, but heard nothing from him since Easter. Still, he was her hope. By the time Kate had settled Rose comfortably, Catherine was already asleep in the bed they shared. The exercise book was tucked under her pillow. Kate pulled it out and flicked it open. In the dim candlelight she could see pages of uneven, scrawly writing, most of which she could not decipher. Only the title was clear: ‘The Wild Irish Girl’.

  Kate sighed and smiled wryly. She had been listening to too many of John’s fanciful yarns about Ireland. She was a strange, fey child, yet with a stubbornness to match the McMullens when she wanted. Kate felt suddenly fearful for her daughter. It didn’t do around here to be different. Everyone was waiting for Catherine to show signs of going the way of her mother, of getting above herself. All this scribbling in notebooks would just give them another chance to tease and point their fingers.

  Kate hesitated. Should she simply throw it on the fire now and stem this strangeness? She gazed at the child’s soft face, purged in sleep of her troubled frown. How beautiful and innocent she looked. Kate was gripped by a fierce protective pride. Gently she pushed the book back under Catherine’s pillow.

  ***

  In June, war struck at the heart of Jarrow. On a moonlit night the quiet was shattered by sirens wailing and the eerie drone of airships. Then the ground shook as bombs exploded over Palmer’s shipyards. Catherine came screaming awake. Without thinking, Kate ran out into the yard to see what was happening. Perhaps they were being invaded. The whole sky was streaked with flames, and acrid smoke fanned uphill on the night breeze.

  ‘Is it the Fritzes?’ Catherine wailed from the door.

  ‘I cannot see. Get back inside and hide under the bed!’

  The clang of a fire engine’s bell sounded below, near the river.

  Kate ran back inside and slammed the door. She bolted into the parlour, expecting to find John up and ready to defend them. Both her parents lay sleeping, oblivious to the noises outside. Typical! Kate thought. She’d lost count of the nights he’d dragged them out of bed, brandishing the fire poker and made them stand shivering to attention in their nightclothes.

  Yet their sleeping unconcern was comforting and she closed the door so as not to wake them. Crouching down, she joined Catherine under the bed. She sang songs to calm them both, still half expecting the front door to splinter open and German soldiers to march in. But none came. Eventually the lurid light in the sky died and the dawn came early. They crept back to bed and slept.

  The news was all over Jarrow before the evening newspapers told the stark facts. A Zeppelin attack on Palmer’s had hit the machine and engine shops. Twelve men on nightshift had been killed. Five others died in the ensuing fire. The town was stunned.

  Funeral processions and sombre bands dominated the following week. Foreigners had their shops attacked once more. Gebhart’s family put a sign in their window, ‘God Save the King’, but had their windows smashed anyway.

  ‘They’re trying to poison us,’ John declared. ‘Don’t you buy owt from that Boche shop.’

  Kate ignored him; they could not afford to anyway.

  Playing fields and parks were ploughed up and planted with crops as the queues outside grocers lengthened and supplies on shelves dwindled. Occasionally the newspapers alluded to German U-boats causing losses to shipping and disruption to imports. Catherine went out to watch a huge pontoon dock being towed into the Slake for the repair and refit of battleships and cruisers. The river had never looked more crowded.

  Then, at the height of summer, Mary came round with a letter written on wafer-thin paper. Kate sat down with the shock.

  ‘Stoddie,’ she gasped. ‘He’s a prisoner.’

  Catherine looked up wide-eyed from the table where she was writing.

  ‘Stoddie’s captured?’

  Kate nodded, too flustered to mind that John could hear.

  ‘What’s he writing to you for?’ he demanded.

  ‘ ‘Cos he’s courting our Kate,’ Mary answered before Kate could. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  Kate flashed her an angry look.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ John scowled.

  But Catherine butted in. ‘Poor Stoddie. How’s he managed to send a letter from prison? Is he not chained up?’

  ‘It’s been sent by a German chaplain - through the Red Cross. That’s what it says.’ Kate’s eyes smarted. ‘He wrote it months ago. He and some other lads were taken at Ypres in April. No wonder I hadn’t heard ...’

  ‘Can I write to him?’ Catherine asked. ‘I think it’s terrible, him being in prison. I heard they give them babies to eat.’

  Kate felt sick. ‘Don’t talk daft.’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it, Da? The Fritzes are cannibals.’

  Kate glared at her stepfather. Trust him to be filling the child’s head full of nonsense.

  ‘Aye, you can write to Stoddie,’ she said, daring John to defy her, ‘keep his spirits up.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s proper for the lass,’ Mary sniffed, ‘writing to a man that’s not her kin.’

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ Kate snapped, ‘so keep your big nose out of mine.’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if you’re engaged,’ Mary continued to needle. ‘From what Jack says, that man’s got sweethearts from here to Shanghai.’

  Kate was riled. ‘He asked me to be his lass before he went.’

  ‘You never said owt to me about it!’ John exclaimed.

  ‘No, she’s too sly,’ Mary said waspishly. ‘Asked him to write to my house so you wouldn’t know what she’s up to.’

  ‘Mary!’ Rose warned.

  But Mary could see from Kate’s thunderous face that she had got the better of her. She could not resist adding, ‘You know what she’s like with lads.’

  ‘You little slut!’ John cried, seizing hold of the poker. ‘And with that Scotchman.’

  Kate rounded on her sister. ‘You can’t bear the thought of me having a bit of happiness, can you? Any chance of finding a lad and you’d spoil it! At least my Stoddie’s brave enough to join up and fight for his country. I’d rather have him a prisoner of war than have a yella-bellied conchie for a husband!’

  Mary went scarlet. ‘My Alec’s no conchie,’ she shouted. ‘He tried to join up but his health was bad.’

  ‘Jack was right,’ Kate was contemptuous, ‘he never tried hard enough. And you wouldn’t have let him, ‘cos it would mean a bit of hardship. And Alec won’t say boo to a goose. People like you just let every other bugger do the dirty work while you stay safe at home.’

  Mary flew at Kate, shrieking, ‘You bitch!’

  They tore at each other’s hair and clothes, screaming their hatred.

  ‘White feather! White f
eather!’

  ‘Dirty cow! I hate you!’

  Rose cried at them to stop but to no avail. Catherine jumped back from the table as they crashed into it, scratching at each other’s faces.

  ‘Stop it, stop it,’ she cried in agitation.

  Only John seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, stabbing the poker in the fire and laughing. ‘Couple of wild cats you’ve raised there, Rose Ann.’

  The fight only ended when Alec appeared unexpectedly, looking for his wife. He pulled Mary away and she fell into his arms bawling at Kate’s savagery.

  Kate stood panting and staring at the man she had just maligned so unfairly. She wanted to say sorry, but could not bring herself to be humble in front of Mary. Her sister had started it, deliberately stirring up trouble.

  Alec led his wife away, with Mary shouting, ‘I’ll never speak to you again! Don’t think you or your brat can stay under my roof. I’ll not lend you a penny neither. You’d only drink it, you drunken slag. Stay away, do you hear?’

  Kate stood shaking and trying not to cry. She throbbed where Mary’s nails had torn her skin. She cursed herself for losing her temper so quickly. Catherine watched her warily from Rose’s side.

  ‘What you looking at me like that for?’ Kate accused. ‘You can help me clear up the mess.’

  Kate bent to the task of picking up the broken plates that had fallen off the dresser, before anyone could see the tears flooding her eyes.

  ‘What did I tell you, Rose Ann?’ John said in contempt. ‘That one’s bad through and through. Should’ve taken the belt to her before she could answer back.’

  Kate carried on, hot with shame at her outburst. Only later did it occur to her that her stepfather might have been maligning Mary and not her. After all, she lorded it over them all. Perhaps he approved that the uppity Mary had been taken down a peg or two. Whichever it was, it achieved one thing. John did not stop Catherine sending chatty letters to Stoddie to comfort him behind enemy lines.

  The summer wore on in uneasy calm. There were no more raids on Tyneside, but Mary was not speaking to any of them and sent Catherine away with a sharp word when she tried to visit. The girl contented herself with playing in the street, organising the other children into games during the long evenings and staying closer to home. She showed flashes of affection towards Kate, helping her at the clippy mat when it rained, and buying her a pear on her birthday.

  ‘Me favourite!’ Kate cried in delight. ‘Come here, hinny, and we’ll share it together.’

  For a few brief minutes they sat on the step in the sun while Kate peeled the ripe pear and handed half to Catherine. They munched and slurped the fruit.

  ‘Don’t waste it,’ Kate cried, seizing the girl’s fingers and licking them as the juice ran down, before Catherine could wipe them on her pinafore. They smiled shyly at each other. Then Rose’s voice came querulously from inside.

  ‘What you doing? Kate! I need helping to the netty.’

  Kate sighed and stood up. ‘Ta, pet,’ she said, resting her hand for an instant on her daughter’s head. They held each other’s look and Kate wished she could find the words to say how much the gesture had pleased her. No one else had thought to buy her a birthday present. Mary might have if they’d been speaking, but they weren’t. The child must have saved up her tram fares to school to buy such a treat and scoured Shields for fresh fruit.

  ‘Kate! Haway and help me!’ Rose shouted again.

  Kate hurried inside and by the time she returned from the privy with her lumbering mother, Catherine had disappeared to play. Yet Kate was encouraged by her daughter’s softening towards her and wondered if it was partly because Mary was absent and not filling the girl’s head with spiteful words about her.

  Then one Saturday, Catherine surprised her by announcing, ‘I’m ganin’ to Cissy’s party this afternoon. Will you do me hair nice, our Kate?’

  ‘Whose party?’ Kate questioned.

  ‘Cissy Waller’s, round in Phillipson Street,’ Catherine said, hopping excitedly round the kitchen.

  ‘You never told me you’d been invited.’ Kate was surprised but pleased. The Wallers were a respectable family in one of the grander upstairs houses.

  ‘Everyone’s ganin’,’ Catherine beamed. ‘Belle’s gone off to get ready. Will you put a new ribbon in me hair? And can I have a clean pinny?’

  ‘No, it needs ironing,’ Kate answered.

  ‘Please, Kate!’ she begged. ‘I’ll iron it.’

  Kate laughed. ‘All right. Pop a coal in the iron and I’ll clear the table. Mind you don’t burn yoursel’.’

  She supervised Catherine’s ironing, listening to the child chatter about the afternoon’s party.

  ‘We’re having games - and cake - and loads of sweets. Cissy said. Best party in the street.’

  ‘Is Belle calling round for you?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Aye, she will,’ Catherine nodded.

  Kate was pleased that her daughter had asked her to do her hair and not Rose. She had noticed how the child avoided standing so close to her grandmother since the sour smell of her incontinence had grown more noticeable in the summer heat. Rose sat with legs swollen and sweating in her chair, trying to catch any breeze by the open kitchen window, issuing fretful orders for cups of tea or help to the privy. As it was, Rose was dozing, unaware of the excitement.

  When Catherine was ready she skipped out into the yard and waited by the gate. Kate noticed for the first time how quiet it was in the back lane. Only two small boys were throwing pebbles at a tin can. A sudden unease stirred within.

  ‘What time’s the party?’ Kate called.

  ‘Two o’clock,’ Catherine said, peering up and down the lane.

  Kate glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter past two. Her stomach clenched. From the yard gate it was possible to see into the back of the Wallers’ house. She forced herself to go and look. The upstairs windows were open, the net curtains lifting in the breeze. Behind them she could see children running around in some game, the noise of their laughter and excited squeals clear across the deserted lane.

  ‘Look, there’s Cissy!’ Catherine cried. ‘And Belle. She’s forgotten to come and get me.’ Her daughter turned and grinned.

  Kate felt punched in the guts. She stared at her in pity. The poor child did not realise she had not been invited.

  ‘I’m here!’ Catherine waved across, jumping up and down to attract the attention of her friends. No one appeared to notice. ‘They can’t hear me. I’ll gan and knock on the back door.’

  Kate put out a hand to stop her. ‘No, Kitty. It’s no use.’

  Catherine stared at her in astonishment. Her face creased in a frown. ‘I’m missing the party,’ she said indignantly, shaking off her mother’s hold. The girl ran out of the yard and across the lane. As she clattered up the back steps, Kate could hear jaunty piano music strike up opposite. Her stomach twisted in fear for her daughter as she watched her knock on the neighbours’ door. No one answered. Catherine hammered harder.

  Suddenly the door swung open and Cissy appeared, flush-faced. Crowding behind, Kate glimpsed other girls, their hair tied up in fancy ribbons like Catherine’s. Kate held her breath. Please God, let her in! She was too far away to hear what was being said, but she could read the expression on her daughter’s face. The eagerness of moments before had vanished.

  Cissy’s voice was raised. There was laughter from the others. Then the door slammed shut. For a stunned moment, Catherine stood on the steps gazing red-faced at the closed door. Kate gulped. Damn them for their cruelty!

  ‘Hinny,’ she called hoarsely. ‘Haway home, pet.’

  Catherine turned and retreated, head bent in humiliation. As she came through the gate, Kate put out an arm in comfort.

  ‘I’ll give you a penny to gan to the picture
s - it’s not too late,’ she offered.

  But Catherine ducked away and would not look at her.

  Kate swallowed. ‘Never you mind them, hinny,’ she said angrily. ‘They count for nowt.’

  Catherine turned and raised huge tearful eyes at her. The child’s look of desolation made Kate nearly choke at such unfairness. She reached out and grabbed the girl, before she could dart away.

  ‘You listen to me, lass,’ Kate urged. ‘The day’ll come when you’ll be laughing at them. You’re worth twice as much.’ She gazed at her forlorn daughter, willing her to be strong. ‘You’ll see your day with them - get your own back. By God, you will!’

  And as she stared past the girl at the house beyond, filled with bitter fury, she vowed there and then, she would live long enough to see that day.

  Chapter 42

  The winter months that followed the brief spell of calm at Number Ten William Black Street were gruelling. Food queues lengthened and more women left the home to work long hours in the armaments factories along the riverside. News from the front was grim. In December, the Allies retreated from Turkey after huge losses at Gallipoli. Conscription was introduced in January of 1916, and by February the Germans had overwhelmed the French at Verdun.

  Prices soared on tea and tobacco and other foodstuffs. When the cheap halfpenny post was abolished, Kate ordered Catherine to stop writing to Stoddie.

  ‘We can’t afford the paper, never mind the stamp,’ she said firmly. Besides, the Scotsman had only written once to the child and never to her, and Kate knew it was foolish to hold on to the dream that he would return and marry her. Jack had been right: Stoddie had probably said the same to other lasses and had meant nothing by it. Maybe he would never return, for there seemed no end to this war.

  When Catherine protested, Kate had sent her off to queue for beer at Daglish’s drink shop in Cuthbert Street. Kate did not like to admit that the decision was partly to do with the arrival of a new lodger, Danny MacQuade. He was handsome and genial and liked to spend his pay from the yards on drink. John approved of him because he was Catholic Irish and a Fenian, and many cold dreary nights were made more bearable by Danny’s whisky and ready smile. He soon made no attempt to hide his interest in Kate and, to her astonishment, John did not answer his blarney with fists and swearing.