THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

‘Spoilt rotten, you mean!’ Rose managed to shout back, before another spasm seized her.

  Her sisters set to work stripping the linen from the bed and lining it with newspaper, while Rose got out of her clothes and put on her nightgown. She felt huge with this baby, like an overgrown marrow that was ready to burst. With the others she had felt nauseous and tired, but with this one she was always ravenous. For months she had had the appetite of someone who worked in the fields and she had satisfied her cravings with anything sweet: mounds of bread and jam, scones and cakes. There was plenty of work at the mill, William was bringing home a steady wage and they had fed well all year. The girls were thriving, William was happy and Rose felt luxuriantly fertile when he touched her full body and complimented her on her plumpness. Now this greedy baby, whom she felt sure must be a boy, was ready to leave the abundance of her belly.

  The first part of labour came swiftly and her waters broke, but then the time dragged on and nothing happened. Rose grew weary and fretful, weighted to the bed like a sack of stones. She had expected this one to come quickly, with the same ease as her pregnancy, but something held it back.

  ‘Maybe we should send for the midwife,’ Lizzie murmured to Maggie. ‘She’s all done in.’

  Maggie agreed - ‘I’ll fetch Mrs Kennedy’ - and went hurrying off for help. A while later she returned with Mrs McMullen, with a shrug at her sisters. ‘Danny’s mam wasn’t there.’

  ‘I said I’d come as soon as I heard,’ Mrs McMullen said, bustling to the bedside. ‘Now what’s the problem, Rose Ann? Can’t be anything I haven’t seen already. Mary Mother! You look like you’ve got room for three or four in there! I was never that big, even with the triplets.’

  Rose looked at John’s mother in alarm. ‘Don’t say that,’ she panted, sinking back on the bolster in exhaustion. She found the woman’s presence unsettling. Despite her good intentions, Rose was hardly in touch with her any more, except to nod to or exchange a brief word outside church after Mass. She was a reminder of the past, of hawking vegetables in the bitter cold, of a time when all her clothes were second- or third-hand and when poverty had been an ever-present threat. She was aware of the woman’s shabby clothes and grimy hands, the smell of the lanes about her. She stirred up uncomfortable memories of John, mixed feelings that made Rose sweat even harder in the stuffy bedroom.

  She tensed as Mrs McMullen prodded her belly and felt for the unborn baby. ‘It’s breech,’ she announced. ‘Baby’s trying to come out feet first, just like my John. It’ll be awkward like him, so it will.’

  The sisters stared at her. ‘So what do we do? Call for the doctor?’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Mrs McMullen dismissed the idea. ‘I can manage fine. It just needs a bit of a sharp talking to. Now help me get Rose Ann propped up more - the baby won’t come if she’s lying down like the sleeping.’

  Rose had no idea how long she crouched there on the bed, supported by her sisters and cajoled by Mrs McMullen into pushing her baby out. She roared with the pain and swore to the Virgin she would have no more children. No sooner had Maggie wiped her face than her eyes were once more blinded with salty sweat. It poured down her body like a stream. She screwed her eyes shut and surrendered to the red-hot hammers that thumped in her head, the pistons of pain that throbbed through her body. She vaguely remembered hearing Margaret and Elizabeth wailing at the door to be let in and Maggie leaving her side to go and placate them.

  After each attempt to push she sank back weaker than before.

  ‘I’m going to die!’ she sobbed in despair. She could see the look of fear on Lizzie’s face.

  ‘Hush now,’ Mrs McMullen said briskly. ‘There’ll be no one dying here today. I can see it coming - just another push so I can get a hold of somethin’.’ But even she began to pray urgently under her breath to a litany of saints, and Rose whimpered in fright.

  ‘Haway, Rose!’ Lizzie rallied. ‘Try again!’ She propped her up with strong arms and gripped her hand in encouragement.

  Rose gathered every ounce of strength left to her and pushed for her life.

  ‘Here come the feet!’ Mrs McMullen cried. She yanked at them so hard that Rose screamed at the searing pain. ‘One more time, Rose Ann,’ she shouted. ‘You push and I pull!’

  Together they made so much noise they startled a horse in the street below. It reared up whinnying, then bolted, shedding from its wagon a sack of flour that burst on the cobbles. Children ran to play with it and chuck handfuls at each other. The flour rose on the breeze like a sandstorm settling on windowsills and wafting into open doors.

  By the time Rose’s baby was out, she could taste flour on her parched lips. She sank back, utterly spent. She did not even have the breath to ask if the baby lived. But a moment later her worry was dispelled by a lusty cry.

  ‘St Theresa be praised!’ Mrs McMullen beamed in relief.

  Lizzie peered eagerly for a look. ‘It’s another lass,’ she laughed in amazement. ‘By heck, it’s a strappin’ one, our Rose!’

  Rose felt a wave of disappointment. She could not summon the enthusiasm to open her eyes and look at her fourth daughter. How she had longed for it to be a son for William. They had been so certain that it would be that they had not even chosen a girl’s name.

  ‘Haway, Rose,’ Lizzie chided, ‘look at your new bairn. She’s got dark hair like you. She’ll be the bonniest of them all.’ The baby howled louder as if trying to gain its mother’s attention, but Rose felt pinned to the bed by exhaustion and disappointment.

  ‘Leave her be,’ Mrs McMullen said gently, ‘she needs to sleep. We’ll go and show off the bairn to her big sisters.’

  They left her alone. Rose could hear the buzz of excited chatter downstairs and the clamour of the children to see the new baby. The fetid room smelt of childbirth and flour and horse dung from the street below. She was hot and thirsty, but past caring of her discomfort. Within minutes she was wrapped in a blissful sleep.

  Rose took several weeks to recover from the birth and Maggie came down frequently to help with the children. They paid for a girl called Bella to come in and do the washing and ironing and black lead the range. But Rose’s initial rejection of the baby was short-lived. She found herself enjoying the enforced rest upstairs, feeding and cuddling her newborn. William chose to name her Catherine, but somehow the name was too formal for the noisy, bright-eyed infant, and from the first she was known as Kate.

  ‘She’s got your bonny dark hair,’ William said, rocking the babe proudly in his arms.

  ‘She’s got your lusty lungs, but!’ Rose laughed. ‘We’ll have another singer in the family.’ Her mind went back to their evening of passion after the Albert Hall concert when she was certain Kate had been conceived. Looking at the pair of them she felt a surge of affection. When William held Kate up to his face to be kissed, she saw the same oval shape in miniature, the same fairness of skin as his. This daughter had taken the best features of them both and melded them into one. Rose prayed she would have William’s sweet nature and her own common sense.

  By the end of August, Rose was back on her feet again and gaining her strength. Bella continued to come in and help on Mondays with the washing, for Rose found her hands full with the four small girls. She strove hard to keep them clean and neatly turned out, well fed and polite, though often Margaret’s bossy manner and Sarah’s exuberance would manifest themselves when their Fawcett grandmother came to call. Margaret was strong-willed and intent on organising her sisters into games they did not grasp. But she was already a help to her mother in fetching her sewing box or mixing ingredients or standing on a stool and handing out pegs when Bella hung out the washing.

  Elizabeth was milder natured, fair and bashful like her father, slow in picking up speech. She usually did what Margaret commanded without much protest, happy with the odd small bribe of a lump of sugar or being allowed to hold Margaret’s
doll. Elizabeth treated her baby sisters like dolls, combing Sarah’s wavy hair and trying to lift Kate from her crib to hold on her knee.

  Their third daughter Sarah had lost her babyish contentment and was forever trying to explore and escape to the dangers of the street. She would climb upstairs and not be able to come down again, or be found under the heavy oak sideboard eating a lump of coal. William had to make a special fireguard to keep her from climbing into the fire or playing with the bellows. Once when Bella dashed out to collect in the washing as rain began to pour, Sarah had staggered halfway down the back lane before they realised she was missing. She was a constant worry to Rose. But Kate at least lay where she was put, gurgling happily at the faces which came to peer at her.

  The christening was delayed because St Bede’s was being enlarged and new bells installed. In early October the refurbished church was opened again with a special service to bless the bells, and Kate was christened a week later. It was a happy family occasion, but Lizzie came with news from Ravensworth that the Reverend Edward Liddell’s health had completely broken down.

  ‘He was staying with his lordship for a couple of weeks, before harvest,’ Lizzie told her. ‘It seemed to upset him - being that close to Jarrow but not allowed to gan back to his work. So he went south again.’

  It confirmed rumours locally that his health was in ruins. Rose had been disappointed that the summer trip to Ravensworth had been cancelled, for the Liddells had been absent. Yet there had been a big ceremony in the parish on St Peter’s Day, when the Bishop of Durham had come to preach and open a new church in the more run-down area near the river. Mr Liddell had been made an honorary canon of Durham, and Rose had slipped along to watch them coming out of the new St Peter’s. Jane, the Liddells’ maid, had told her how proud Mrs Liddell was of the rector that day.

  The week after Kate’s christening, Rose bundled the girls into coats and bonnets, put the younger two in the pram and set off for the rectory to see for herself. Jane let her in.

  ‘The mistress isn’t seeing visitors,’ she warned, ‘but I’ll tell her you’re here with the bairns.’

  They were ushered into the drawing room, which was cold and bleak, half the furniture covered in dustsheets. Rose was shocked to see how drawn and pale Mrs Liddell looked, but she rallied at the sight of Rose and the children. She made a fuss of the new baby and told Jane to bring in some tea and biscuits for them all.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ she said abruptly, turning to stare out of the soot-speckled window. ‘The rector needs a long period of convalescence.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rose said, trying to stop Sarah from exploring under a dustsheet. The older two fidgeted on the seat beside her. ‘Will you be gone for long?’

  When Mrs Liddell turned round her eyes were full of tears. She nodded. ‘We won’t be coming back,’ she whispered. ‘It’s been too much for my husband - he’s made himself ill caring for so many.’

  Once she started speaking of her anguish she could not stop. ‘He’s given his best years to Jarrow - down at the docks before dawn, doling out hot drinks, preaching in the streets, visiting everyone who called for his help no matter what time of day or night! There’s hardly a home in the town he hasn’t been into to hold the hand of a sick child or a dying man. Never once did he spare himself. He drove himself until he dropped and I couldn’t stop him! God forgive me, but sometimes I get really angry and ask, why him? Why did God give him this great challenge and then rob him of his health so he cannot complete it?’

  She let out a terrible sob and Rose wanted to go to her, put her arms about her. How lonely she must be to be telling such things to the likes of her. But Rose was inhibited by this woman’s social position; it was not for her to make such an impertinent gesture. So she sat and gripped Sarah in her lap, thinking of the rector striding about Jarrow with Verger at his heels, greeting everyone he met by name and with a cheerful smile. It was tragic that such a good man had been beaten down by the very conditions he sought to improve.

  ‘We’re put here to endure,’ Rose answered simply, ‘not to ask why.’

  Once she might have believed that ill health was a sign of a person’s sinfulness, but she could not think that of the rector, even if he was an Anglican. William had made her less tolerant of such ideas. ‘It’s bad conditions that cause disease that are sinful, Rose,’ he would say, ‘not the diseased.’

  The rector’s wife bowed her head as if ashamed of speaking such thoughts, and reached for a handkerchief.

  ‘He’ll be greatly missed round here, Mrs Liddell,’ Rose mumbled. ‘You an’ all.’

  Christina Liddell put her hand to her mouth to stifle another sob. ‘Thank you, Rose. We’ll miss you all too.’ She sighed heavily. ‘When we first came, I thought it the end of the earth - wanted to run away at once. But Edward felt akin to the people here. He hated the way they were forced to live, but never the people. Wherever we go next, half of him will always be here.’

  Rose was moved by the woman’s sadness, but said, ‘At least you and Canon Liddell have somewhere else you can go.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said ruefully. ‘Yet he doesn’t see it as escape, he sees it as a job left undone, his people abandoned.’ She looked at Rose regretfully. ‘This may be hard to understand, but to my husband it will be a kind of exile.’ She paused, then added in a whisper, ‘And to me it is the end of a dream.’

  Rose stared at her in surprise. She had never heard of anyone who looked upon Jarrow as a dream fulfilled, except maybe her starving Irish forebears escaping the Famine.

  ‘What do you mean, Mrs Liddell?’ she asked gently.

  The older woman swallowed hard. ‘I - we had hoped to adopt Alexander - had almost promised him,’ she explained. ‘But now with my husband’s illness and no permanent home to offer, it’s all too uncertain. We’ve abandoned the idea. And I had so wanted to. . .’ She broke off, quite overcome.

  Rose felt tears sting her own eyes. ‘Does Alexander know?’

  Mrs Liddell nodded. ‘He took it badly - shouted and threw things about. We feel so awful at letting him down.’

  ‘You mustn’t,’ Rose said quickly. ‘You did what you could for him - and he’s got plenty other relations to take care of him.’

  Mrs Liddell hung her head. ‘Condemned to being passed around like a parcel. Besides, he’s fast running out of relatives willing to put up with his unruly ways.’

  Rose instinctively put out a hand and touched her briefly in comfort. ‘Maybes Canon Liddell will recover sooner than you think and you can give Alexander the home he wants.’

  The older woman looked up and smiled in gratitude. ‘You are a kind girl, Rose.’

  Bashfully, Rose withdrew her hand and muttered she should be going.

  Mrs Liddell stood too. ‘Alexander was very taken with you and William,’ she admitted. ‘He once asked if he could go and live with you both rather than be sent away south.’

  ‘With us?’ Rose exclaimed.

  ‘It made me a little jealous, I must confess,’ she smiled.

  ‘W-we couldn’t have taken him in,’ Rose stammered.

  Mrs Liddell was quick to reassure. ‘Of course not. We wouldn’t have expected you to take on such a burden. It was just Alexander’s fanciful idea.’

  Rose bristled. ‘We wouldn’t have minded because of the cost,’ she said proudly. ‘It’s just him being one of the gentry - it wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Mrs Liddell sighed. ‘Poor Alexander. He doesn’t really belong anywhere.’

  Soon afterwards, Rose gathered up the children and left the forlorn house that had once been so welcoming to all who came. She was saddened to think she might never see the Liddells again or know how Alexander’s life turned out. They had been a link with a broader world outside the confines of Jarrow town and St Bede’s church. This kind couple
had given her friendship and work when needed, and a glimpse of paradise in that summer trip to Ravensworth for which she would always be grateful.

  How strange, Rose thought, that the Liddells should have chosen to leave the security of Ravensworth for Jarrow, just like her mother. But Jarrow had taken these gentle people and drained the life out of them like a thirsty beast. Only the hardiest of people survived its appetite.

  As she pushed the girls home, all perched on the pram, Rose pondered what Mrs Liddell had said about exile. She knew what the rector meant. If she were to leave Jarrow tomorrow and never come back, it would be like a slow death. It was not so much the familiar buildings or this particular stretch of river or even the hazy horizon of Simonside she would miss. It would be her family and friends. They were her reason for being, she thought with a fierce, protective urge. To be separated from your own people must be the worst punishment in the world.

  She thought of young Alexander being shunted from pillar to post with no one really to care for him. He might be better off than they, but wealth did not seem to have brought the boy happiness. Her heart ached for him and for a brief moment she daydreamed about William and herself taking the rejected boy into their home. Impossible, of course. His own kind would have to take care of him.

  On the way home, Rose stopped in at the church and lit a candle for the Liddells. She prayed for their broken health and sore hearts to be mended. She prayed for Alexander, that he might find someone to love him. Then she hurried back to Raglan Street, thankful that she had her young family around her.

  Chapter 13

  With 1883 came a further year of prosperity for William and Rose, and their young family throve. Rose was kept busy from dawn to dusk looking after the lively girls, and it was a source of great pride to see them turned out clean and tidy in new clothes from the Co-operative store. That summer the weather was fine for days on end and they spent as much of it as possible outdoors.

  She would walk the children up to Simonside to play around her father’s smallholding and picnic in the meadow. On Sunday afternoons, William would take the older girls paddling in the stream and catch small fish in a jam jar. If there was racing on the river, he would carry them on his shoulders to go and watch the rowers pit their strength against boatmen from as far away as the Thames.