‘Aunt Lizzie!’ Kate cried, and dashed forward to hug her aunt.
‘Maggie sent word.’ She smiled fondly at her niece. ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this.’ They looked at each other wordlessly for a long moment, as memories flooded back of happier times when Kate had lived at Ravensworth. They had seen each other seldom over the past twelve years, only at the christenings of Sarah and Mary’s children. ‘You’re still bonny, for all your troubles,’ her aunt said kindly.
‘How’s Mam?’ Kate asked.
‘Been sleeping mostly since we got here.’
‘Aye,’ Maggie confirmed. ‘Don’t think she recognised our Lizzie.’
The aunts and nieces set about making Sunday lunch, eking out the winter vegetables Lizzie had brought from Ravensworth and catching up on family news. George, whose eyesight was too poor for military service, was courting and soon to be wed. Boisterous Alfred was impatient for his next birthday so he could sign up with the Durhams and join Cousin Jack in Flanders.
‘Let’s gan in and see if Mam’s awake,’ Kate suggested. ‘Maybes she’ll manage a bit broth.’
Catherine bounded into the parlour ahead of them. Rose opened her eyes at the noise. To Kate’s astonishment, she saw Rose smile for the first time in weeks. Her eyes were fixed on Catherine as she beckoned the girl with a trembling hand.
‘Come here, me bonny bairn,’ she rasped.
‘We lit a candle for Jack, Mam,’ Catherine smiled, approaching the bed and letting her grandmother touch her face.
Rose did not seem to register the words.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Rose whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
The child gave her a quizzical look. ‘Been to church, like you said, Mam.’
Rose frowned in worry. ‘Don’t run off again, Margaret hinny. You gave me and your da such a fright.’
Catherine glanced round at the others, baffled. Kate came forward.
‘It’s Kitty, Mam,’ she said gently, ‘your grandbairn.’
Rose gazed at Catherine, tears oozing down her cheeks. ‘You’ve come back,’ she whispered, clinging on to the girl, ‘my bonny, bonny lass! Angel child. Just like she said.’
‘Like who said, Mam?’ Kate asked.
‘The gypsy lass, of course,’ Rose said with a hint of her old spark. ‘Promised me the angel child.’ She sank back on her pillows, her eyes still fixed on Catherine. ‘And all the time it was you, Margaret, come back to me ... Don’t go away again, hinny, don’t go ...’
Her breathing grew ragged and she closed her eyes in exhaustion. Quietly Kate steered Catherine away.
‘Leave her be,’ she murmured.
‘Who’s Margaret?’
‘She’s gettin’ mixed up - it’s the medicine,’ She glanced at her aunts in the doorway.
‘Poor Rose! She’s going backwards - thinking of her first bairn,’ Lizzie said quietly. ‘She died of consumption years ago.’
‘Aye,’ Maggie agreed sadly. ‘Margaret was her favourite. Took it that bad when she died.’
Kate felt her eyes sting with tears. ‘I remember that,’ she murmured. ‘Mam crying and shutting herself away in the room where me sister died.’
‘Do I look like her?’ Catherine asked.
‘Aye, there’s a look,’ Maggie agreed. The girl seemed pleased with this.
Sarah added, ‘And you’ve got Margaret’s bossy streak an’ all. Like a mother hen with the rest of us, wasn’t she, Kate?’
Kate smiled wistfully and touched her daughter’s cheek. ‘Aye, from what I remember. Always carryin’ us about and being the leader in our games.’
‘What did she mean about the gypsy?’ Sarah puzzled.
Maggie and Lizzie exchanged looks and glanced towards the kitchen to make sure John was out of earshot.
Maggie lowered her voice. ‘Don’t you remember going to The Hoppings in Newcastle - before Jack was born?’
Sarah struggled with her memory. ‘Aye, I do! Kate, remember the Irish woman who read Mam’s palm?’
Kate had a vague recollection of a red-haired woman with mesmerising eyes, touching her hair. There had been a huge row in front of a makeshift tent. It could have been at the fair.
‘Well, Rose said this gypsy had spoilt the day by cursing you all with bad fortune. John was that angry and told her never to talk of it again. She wouldn’t tell all that the gypsy had said.’
‘But she predicted Jack’s birth,’ Lizzie continued, ‘she told us that. And sommat about an angel child.’
‘To sweeten her old age,’ Maggie recited. ‘She always held on to the belief there’d be this bairn like an angel, no matter how bad things got with him in there.’ She nodded towards the kitchen.
‘Kitty, an angel?’ Mary was sceptical. ‘Didn’t think Mam believed in such nonsense anyway.’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘Maybes it helped her keep her spirits up. God knows, she’s needed it over the years.’
They all glanced back at the figure in the bed, sleeping fitfully.
‘What harm does it do if she thinks Kitty’s her special lass come back,’ Sarah said, ‘if it eases her going?’
The aunts nodded and turned away. Kate looked at her daughter’s perplexed face and felt a strange tingle down the back of her neck. Could it be possible that some tinker woman had predicted the birth of her child so long ago? If so, then her daughter must be destined for something special. Briefly Kate rested a hand on Catherine’s head and took comfort from the thought.
‘Haway, hinny,’ she said, ‘we’ll leave her be.’
The next day, sudden blizzards swirled in from the east and brought trains and trams to a standstill. Lizzie and Sarah had no option but to stay on, but Rose never regained consciousness after the strange incident with Catherine. It was as if, at the sight of the child she mistook for her beloved, long-dead Margaret, she no longer needed to struggle. Their battle-weary, stoical, protective mother had found peace at last.
No one was surprised when, in the early hours of Wednesday morning, Kate was shaken awake by Catherine.
‘Mam’s stopped making that rattlin’ noise. Is that a good sign, Kate?’
Kate rushed to her mother’s bedside and held a candle aloft. The eyes were staring and lifeless, her skin already cooling to the touch. Kate closed her eyes for a long moment, squeezing back hot tears.
‘Aye, it’s a good sign,’ she trembled. ‘Gan back to bed, hinny.’
Kate sat in the dark, holding her mother’s hand. It felt suddenly slim, as if all the knotted veins had unravelled and the thick knuckles dissolved. Rose had a young woman’s hands again, she marvelled. Slow painful tears of loss spilt down her cheeks.
‘You’re with me da now,’ Kate whispered hoarsely, ‘and me sisters. A happy day for you, Mam.’ She leant forward and kissed her gently on the forehead, wishing she could have done so when she was alive.
The next three days were a blur of funeral arranging, with neighbours calling to pay their respects at the open coffin and help contribute towards holly wreaths and sprays of winter jasmine. John sat morosely in his chair, accepting consoling drinks and platitudes about the wife he had once adored but come to despise after years of wrangling and hardship for which they had each blamed the other.
The day of the funeral, Kate bade Catherine say goodbye to her grandmother before the coffin was nailed down. But the child was awkward and ran off. She had been playing up for days, refusing her food and being sick, and this was the final straw.
Kate was too desolate to try to coax round her difficult daughter and left Mary to fuss over the child. She balked at the thought of going to the burial, until Sarah chivvied her with a cup of tea fortified strongly with whisky.
‘Get that down you,’ her sister ordered.
With false courage in her bell
y, Kate set out with the family down the hill to Jarrow cemetery. Amid flurries of snow, frozen to the marrow, a grief-stricken Kate clutched her sisters. As the coffin was lowered into the metal-hard ground and the priest hurried over the brief committal, Kate crumpled like a small child, sobbing for her mother.
Soon her sisters and aunts would be gone to their own homes and separate lives. Only she would be left to soldier on at Number Ten with her bullying stepfather and resentful daughter. God give her strength to carry on!
Numbly she looked around for Catherine. Maybe it was just possible that, left alone together, the child might come to love her more and Kate might find more patience. Through her tears Kate saw the girl standing impassively next to her grandfather. She was holding on to his frayed jacket as if it gave her a shred of comfort.
Kate felt sick to the core. For all his hardness and vicious tongue, Catherine was closer to the old devil than she would ever be to her. She felt overwhelmingly alone.
‘Oh, Mam!’ Kate wailed in distress. ‘How can I bear it all on me own?’
Chapter 45
As Kate predicted, John’s behaviour towards her grew unbearable. He belittled her every day with callous remarks about her looks and slovenly ways, ordered her around like a servant and blamed her for everything from the lack of food to the bitter weather. He came home reeking with drink and was all too ready to make fumbling grabs at her late at night. He alternately threatened and pleaded.
‘I’m a poor widower without me wife,’ he whined. ‘I’ve needs. Just give us a little cuddle, lass, that’s all I ask.’
Kate pushed him off in disgust, grabbing Catherine to her in the bed.
‘You’ll keep away from me or I’ll leave you for good - and I’ll tak the bairn with me.’
She knew even in drink John could not bear the thought of being left to fend for himself or to do without Catherine’s uncritical company. But Kate never carried out her threats, despite Mary’s goading.
‘Don’t know why you stop in that house any longer now Mam’s gone,’ she said with disapproval. ‘The lass deserves better.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ Kate protested, ‘but where else could I gan? Are you offering to tak us in?’
‘We haven’t the room,’ Mary said at once.
‘No,’ Kate eyed her squarely, ‘and I’ve not two pennies spare. The only reason I stay is for the roof over our heads.’
But Catherine was anything but grateful for her sacrifices. She grew increasingly rebellious, finally refusing one Monday morning to stay off school to go to the pawnshop.
‘I’m not doing it,’ she declared. ‘Miss Coulthard will strap me if I’m late.’
‘You’ll do what I say before that old witch.’
‘No I won’t.’ Catherine glared back. ‘It’s wrong what you’re asking. It’s against the law and it’s a sin for me to miss me schooling and tell lies about being sick.’
‘Don’t you preach to me!’ Kate went to grab hold of her, but Catherine dodged out the door, running off to school in defiance of her mother. That day, Kate had to make the shameful trip to the pawnshop.
To get through the days Kate found solace in drink. She drank more heavily than she had ever done, blotting out John’s abusive words and Catherine’s defiance for blissful short hours. She would invite anyone in who might like to share a glass of beer or two and have a sing-song around the fire, to ease the drudgery. No matter how drab the day or great the cares that weighed on her, Kate never lost her love of singing and music.
It was this that gave her an idea, one spring day in 1918, when she had gone with a bundle of clothes to the pawnshop in Tyne Dock. She heard the sound of piano playing in the back of the shop and stopped to listen.
‘ “Linden Lee”,’ she gasped in delight. ‘Me da used to play that when I was a bairn.’
‘My daughter takes lessons,’ the pawnbroker told her proudly.
Kate was seized with a sudden thought. Catherine was musical - why should her daughter not have lessons too? It would take her out of herself. She was so moody and distant when she wasn’t being defiant, and deep down Kate wanted to please her daughter. She sensed how much the girl missed her grandmother and wanted her to feel better. Kate felt guilty that Catherine had to witness the fights between her and John. Perhaps that was why the child withdrew into her own thoughts so much. All she wanted to do was scribble in that book Jack had given her, filling every inch with indecipherable writing.
But piano lessons were an accomplishment for a young lady. How grand it would be to have piano music fill her home, just as it had in her childhood.
‘Where does she have her lessons?’ Kate asked boldly.
‘At Mrs Dalton’s in Hood Street. Her charges are very modest,’ he smiled. Kate felt grateful that the man did not scoff at her question. Her daughter had as much right to lessons as the families of the well-off.
But back home again, Kate thought how ridiculous was her ambition. Where would she get the money for lessons, let alone a piano to practise on? Then suddenly she remembered the five pounds. It was still there, sewn into the underside of the feather mattress. This would be the moment to use it. Rose would have approved. It would go towards securing a better future for Catherine.
The very next day, Kate went into town and ordered a piano, using the five pounds as a deposit. It arrived at the end of the week and Kate preened at the astonished faces of the neighbours as the beautiful satinwood instrument was carried in and placed in the parlour. She had not felt so proud in years. But it was her stepfather and daughter’s expressions that she could not wait to see.
After tea, she flung open the parlour door and showed them. At first John was speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a puppet’s. Then he exploded. ‘You haven’t bought it?’
‘I have,’ Kate said with glee. ‘It’s for you, Kitty.’
‘Me?’ Catherine gaped. ‘But I cannot play...’
‘You’ll learn. You’re ganin’ to Mrs Dalton’s for lessons. It’s all arranged.’
Catherine stared at her, wide-eyed in disbelief.
‘You’re bloody daft!’ John shouted. ‘You cannot afford it.’ He turned on her suspiciously.
‘Where’ve you got the money for this? Been whoring down the docks or what?’
Kate flared. ‘No I have not! It’s paid for good and proper. Well, at least the deposit’s paid and I’ll find the rest when the time comes.’ She challenged him with a look. ‘Maybes some of Jack’s pay could gan towards it?’
John snarled. ‘You’ll not get owt of that for fancy piano lessons. What you want to gan filling the lass’s head with ideas above herself?’
‘Our Kitty’s got an ear for music. She’ll pick it up in no time, then there won’t be any need for lessons.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Isn’t that right, pet?’
The girl gave her such a strange look, Kate thought she would burst into tears. She was obviously quite overcome with the gift.
‘Go on, have a bit play,’ Kate encouraged. ‘Show your grandda.’
Catherine sidled over to the piano and lifted the lid. It was like the one at school that the hateful Miss Coulthard banged away on during morning assembly. It reminded her of hymns of repentance. How could they possibly afford it? She touched the keys tentatively. The notes rang out deep and discordant. Her fingers froze at the thought of all those lessons stretching ahead, all to be paid for. And Kate still in debt from the funeral.
Catherine felt bile rise in her throat and clamped a hand over her mouth to stop herself being sick. Her eyes watered as she stared in fear and resentment at her mother. How could she burden her with having to play this monstrous instrument? Just so she could have a sing-song round the piano and get full of drink of an evening! If she’d bothered to ask, she would rather have had a bicycle. That would have
saved the tram fare to school and she would have been upsides with Belle and Cissy.
Catherine knew she could not speak without vomiting all over the parlour floor. Without a word, she fled from the room, out of the house and down the lane, throwing up in the stunted grass overlooking the Slake.
Kate was left puzzling her daughter’s abrupt departure, vexed at her lack of gratitude.
John laughed at her. ‘Doesn’t look a willing pupil to me.’ He spat into the empty grate.
Kate pursed her lips. ‘She’ll come round.’ She banged the lid shut in disappointment.
Over the following weeks Catherine was sent down to Hood Street for lessons. But to Kate’s huge disappointment and frustration, she showed no natural talent or enthusiasm. The noise from the parlour, when it came at all, was hesitant and laboured. Once the longer days came, Catherine was hard to keep in the house and Kate had many a battle trying to get her daughter to practise.
‘It’d come easy if you just sat down and played it for more than five minutes,’ Kate complained.
‘I don’t want to play it,’ Catherine replied mutinously. ‘I’m no good.’
As time went on, and the payments on the piano lapsed, Kate sought increasingly desperate ways to pay for the lessons. Trips to the pawnshop doubled, and hearing that Mrs Dalton had several sons to feed, she offered to pay in pie and peas suppers. For some reason Catherine seemed to take offence at this, and would lock herself in the privy when the Dalton boys came up the hill to fetch the meals that Kate had prepared.
The more Catherine played up over the lessons, the more determined Kate was that her daughter would become accomplished at the piano. She coaxed and cajoled and bullied.
‘It’ll come in handy all your life,’ she insisted. ‘It’s a sign of being respectable. And if you get really good, you could be a music teacher or play with an orchestra or at the pictures.’
‘I don’t want to be a teacher,’ Catherine said sullenly. ‘They’re old battle-axes and they wear terrible clothes.’
‘Well, I’ll not have you being a skivvy like me.’ Kate lost patience. ‘Is that what you want? ‘Cos that’s all you’ll be good for if you don’t learn your lessons.’
A Child of Jarrow Page 40