Only when he had come back and found Sultana had borne him a daughter did he show her kindness and a grudging affection. He had doted on the tawny-eyed child, naming her Ruth. He had taught her to sing Irish songs. Then, three years ago, he had returned from a tour of duty at the Frontier and found them both dead from an outbreak of cholera.
He had got blind drunk for a week and nearly poisoned himself to death with the local firewater. After that, John had no more heart left for soldiering and often his stomach played up. He served his time, increasingly withdrawn and impatient with the world, waiting for his gratuity and a passage home.
Now, after years of gruelling service under a harsh sun, where anyone he had let himself care for had died of sickness or been butchered fighting at his side, fortune had smiled on him. Rose McConnell - he had never thought of her as Fawcett - was widowed and in need of rescue from the brutal puddling mill.
He had stared at her hard the first time he saw her, puce-faced and sweating in the ferocious heat. She was stout and thick-armed, her sleeves pulled back and hands filthy. Her dark hair was scraped into a severe bun at the back of her head, but wayward strands had escaped and stuck to her glistening neck and cheeks. He doubted it was her, until a coarse-faced woman at her side prodded Rose and nodded in his direction. Slowly she straightened, leaning on her shovel, and glanced over with lifeless eyes.
She pushed at her stray hair and frowned. A vein stood out on her broad forehead, throbbing with the exertion of manual work, and her chest heaved. Her breasts sagged in the shapeless dress. John felt a rush of disappointment, even anger at this woman for taking the place of the pretty girl he remembered, who had plagued his mind all these years. But it was Rose. The large, wide-set eyes, the full mouth and prominent cheekbones were recognisable. Yet despite the lines of experience and pain etched across her face, it was still attractive, still dearly familiar.
John felt a stab of pity mixed with triumph at having found her. He waited expectantly for her to show surprise or pleasure at seeing him again after all this time. But after a few seconds, she turned back to her work without a flicker of interest or recognition. He left feeling fury and hurt, humiliated by the pointing and laughter of the other women. How he hated them all! He spent the rest of the day in the pub until he was thrown out for being abusive and swearing in Urdu, and had to be frog-marched home by two of his brothers, singing drunkenly at the top of his voice.
After that, John feigned indifference to Rose and the other women when he unloaded the scrap iron from the wagons, until one day late in the autumn, when he became aware of someone watching him. It made the back of his neck prickle, the way it used to on sentry duty, camped out among the bald rocks guarding the Frontier. He looked up and saw Rose eyeing him from the open doorway. His heart thudded in shock. Gone was the dead expression of before; her look was sharp and assessing, her posture bold. In confusion, he touched his cap and fled in panic. Afterwards, he tried to remember if she had nodded at him or not.
In a state of nerves, he returned a few days later, determined to take a longer look. He lingered in the doorway, fighting the urge to run away, until Rose turned towards him. Flustered, he took off his cap and scratched his head. How was it that women managed to alarm him so easily, when he had stood and faced unspeakable horrors in battle?
She nodded at him and his stomach unknotted. It was a definite sign of recognition, even of interest. He was suddenly aware that she was only half dressed. Her bodice showed the plump tops of her breasts and the pale bare flesh of her upper arms. John felt a quickening of excitement, a familiar stab of desire at the sight of a woman’s body. He turned quickly and left, nervous at the thought that she might be discussing him with the other woman. But he could not rid his mind of Rose and grew more unsettled by the day.
It was his mother who finally pushed him into paying a visit to Simonside.
‘I can see something’s eatin’ at you,’ she complained. ‘Joseph tells me you’re daft for some lass - you were singing about her when they had to carry you home the other night.’
John flushed with embarrassment and growled a denial.
‘For the love of St Peter, go and see her,’ she urged. ‘It’s time I had you off me hands for good.’
It was a raw December afternoon when Elizabeth and Kate spotted the man in the army jacket making his way up the track. Between them they were carrying a sack of cinders that they had scavenged from the railway siding and some fat twigs brought down by recent gales. They gawped at him as he came closer, wondering whether to stay or scamper back to the cottage in safety.
It was Kate who spoke first to the tall, stern-faced man who peered down at them as he regained his breath at the gate.
‘Are you a soldier?’ she asked, eyeing his appearance with interest.
‘I was,’ he answered.
‘You still look like one to me,’ Kate said. ‘You’ve got a red coat like a soldier.’
‘And who are you?’ he asked gruffly.
‘I’m Kate Fawcett. I’m seven and I can say me nine times table. This is me sister Elizabeth. She’s ten.’
John glanced at the mute girl with blue eyes so like her father staring at him fearfully. ‘Has she lost her tongue?’
‘Na,’ Kate answered again. ‘We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.’
‘Not very obedient then, are you?’ John grunted. ‘Any road, it’s your mam I’ve come to see.’
Kate looked doubtful. ‘She doesn’t speak to strangers neither. She doesn’t speak much to anybody - except Our Lady and St Theresa and me da in Heaven.’
John scowled at her. ‘I’m not a stranger - I’m an old friend of your mother’s. Now stop yer cheek and gan and tell her I’d like a word.’
Kate shook her head. ‘She’s restin’ with me big sister Margaret. She’s poorly bad - caught a chill and won’t eat anything.’
John asked in concern, ‘Your mam’s sick?’
‘No, it’s me sister. Coughing all night and keepin’ us awake and—’
‘Just go and tell her John McMullen’s come to call on her!’ he shouted suddenly, his nerve nearly failing him. Elizabeth flinched with fright and Kate froze. ‘If you don’t scarper this minute I’ll get me bayonet out.’
Kate gave him a quick look to see where he might be hiding his bayonet. ‘You haven’t got a b—’
John made a sudden move forward as if he would grab her, and Elizabeth screamed. She dropped her end of the sack at once and, seizing Kate by the hand, yanked her up the muddy path. John watched them go, noticing the loping run of the inquisitive younger girl. Not only did she look like Rose, she was spirited like her mother. He laughed softly at the sound of their anxious voices shouting a warning.
‘Mam! There’s a soldier outside. Mam, he wants you!’
‘Aunt Maggie, he’s got a bayonet! Come quickly!’
Rose was roused from sleep by the girls’ shouting. She had dozed off beside Margaret, a protective arm thrown around her feverish body. She was at once alert to the child’s ragged shallow breathing. She put her hand on Margaret’s flushed forehead and felt it hot to the touch. Her daughter opened her eyes and gazed at her trustingly.
Before she could speak, Kate burst in. ‘He’s waiting outside for you!’
‘What’s all the fuss?’ Rose demanded crossly. ‘Can’t you see your sister’s not well? And don’t you go waking Uncle Danny and your grandda from their nap with all your noise.’
‘Sorry, Mam,’ Elizabeth said, peering in anxiously. ‘He said he wasn’t a stranger. He wants to see you.’
‘Who does?’ Rose asked, her insides lurching.
‘John somebody,’ Kate said.
‘McMullen,’ Elizabeth added.
Rose’s nervousness increased. ‘I can’t see him now. I can’t leave Margaret. Tell him to go away.’
<
br /> ‘Mam!’ Elizabeth pleaded. ‘He’ll shout at us again. Please see him! I’ll sit with our Margaret. I’m good at wiping her face and keeping her cool.’
Rose put her hand up to her hair. It was tousled and her black dress was crumpled. She was in no fit state to be seen by a visitor, least of all John McMullen. Yet she had half expected him; looked out for him on the hill on more than one occasion. Ever since their exchange of looks at the mill, she had half anticipated, half dreaded his coming to seek her out. Now he was here and she did not know if she wanted his attentions or not.
Maggie bustled into the room. ‘You can’t leave him standing out there in the half-dark,’ she scolded. ‘I’m going to ask him in and you’re going to see him.’
Rose looked at her sister and saw her stubborn expression; Maggie had reached the end of her patience. What choice did she have? Rose wondered. The girls watched her expectantly.
Suddenly Margaret whispered at her side. ‘Go, Mam. I’m feeling better.’
Rose looked down at her wan face and glazed eyes and saw her trying to smile. She felt a rush of fierce love for her eldest. Margaret had been her greatest companion and help through her darkest moments, stubbornly keeping to her side even when she scolded and pushed her daughter away. It was Margaret who had raised the other girls and seen to their needs these past two years far more than she had. For her Rose would do anything, even face John McMullen whom she still half feared.
Rose squeezed her daughter’s hand in reassurance. ‘Aye, I’ll go,’ she agreed.
Chapter 21
Rose felt as nervous as a young girl stepping into the kitchen. She hardly had time to glance in the stained mirror on top of the washstand, for her daughters seized her hands and pulled her after them. They were fearful and excited at receiving a soldier as a visitor and wondered why their mother had never mentioned that she knew one.
Rose pushed her wavy tousled hair behind her ears, trying to force it back into its bun. Elizabeth and Sarah hung on to her rustling skirts like limpets. But Kate skipped ahead, eager to show off to the soldier standing stiffly upright with his back to the fire.
‘Here’s me mam,’ she cried proudly.
Rose met John’s fierce-eyed appraisal. He looked taller and more gaunt in the firelight, the shadows deep in the hollow of his cheeks. Close up she could see that his once-dark hair was greying, his thick moustache brindled and faded with years under the bleaching sun. He looked distinguished standing to attention in his army coat, surveying them all with detachment down his long straight nose. But his eyes were still those of the angry young man with a passion for Ireland who had aroused her interest as a girl.
Why had he come? What could he possibly want with her after all these years? She had nothing to offer him except an empty heart and five young daughters who were too young to fend for themselves. With his army gratuity and his austere good looks he could do better than that.
While they stood looking dumbly at each other, Maggie intervened.
‘Sit yourself down, John,’ she smiled. ‘It’s grand to see you after all this time. Isn’t it, Rose?’ She shot her sister a nervous look. ‘We heard from your mam that you were back. You must tell us all about your adventuring - the lasses would like to hear it. India, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ John nodded, and lowered himself into the chair by the fire.
‘That’s Grandda’s chair,’ Kate piped up.
John looked alarmed and half rose again.
‘Stay,’ Maggie urged him. ‘Father’s restin’ in the back, he’d not mind in the least.’ She gave Kate a warning look. ‘You come over here and help me put jam on the bread.’
‘But I want to hear about India,’ Kate protested. She looked eagerly at John. ‘Did you see any tigers? Our Margaret once saw a tiger at the circus, didn’t she, Mam? Me da took her to see it. He made her a lion in a cage -we’ve still got it.’
‘Kate!’ Maggie cried, alarmed by the mention of William. ‘Mr McMullen doesn’t want to be bothered by silly questions about tigers. Now do as I say.’
Rose was jolted out of silence by Maggie’s scolding of the talkative Kate. ‘The lass is right, her father did take Margaret to see the tiger. There’s no harm in her asking questions,’ she defended the girl. ‘And if there’s any telling off to do, I’ll be the one doing it,’ she added. ‘Elizabeth, you help Aunt Maggie get the tea ready. Sarah, you set the table.’
John looked with interest between the sisters. He had never seen them argue openly before. They had always been so close, the McConnell girls. But he knew all too well how easily families squabbled and fell out when they were cooped up together for too long. At once he saw Maggie as an ally in prising Rose from her hermit-like existence at the smallholding. And he knew, looking at Rose’s pale, composed face, that he wanted her still.
She seemed so lost and vulnerable in her black widow’s gown, yet she held herself with dignity and was quick to defend her young daughter. John admired her loyalty to her children, even if he disapproved of Kate’s boldness. Like Maggie, he thought the girl should mind her tongue and help her aunt, but how Rose dealt with her daughters was up to her.
It suddenly occurred to John that if he was to win Rose, he was also going to have to take on all these girls. He had not given them much thought until now, except that lasses would be extra help around the house and could easily be put to work. How many were there? He tried to remember. Glancing quickly round he saw three. Then there was the one ill in bed. At that moment a wail went up from a wooden cot in the far corner and a small infant pulled herself up with an accusing stare around the room. Five! he thought without enthusiasm.
Yet, Rose was strong and robust and still of an age when she could bear him the sons that he now so wanted. The thought of lying with Rose made his pulse quicken.
As he struggled to think of anything coherent to say to her, he watched Maggie rush over to lift the small cross-faced girl from the cot and pacify her with soft words. He was momentarily confused. Perhaps this was not one of Rose’s after all? Then Kate hobbled over and reached for the girl.
‘I’ll take her, Aunt Maggie,’ she smiled, and almost grabbed Mary out of her aunt’s arms. The girl responded to the attention and put her small arms about Kate’s neck. ‘This is our Mary,’ Kate said, staggering back with her sister. ‘She’s the youngest. She’s two, but she speaks canny already.’
Rose felt a pang of pity for her bright, eager-faced daughter. She could see that Kate was trying to please their visitor. She was used to the adoring interest of William and the sociable storytelling of her McConnell grandfather. She could even make Danny laugh with her antics when he had grown tired of the rest of them. Kate enjoyed male company, but the sullen look on John’s face showed she was wasting her time with him. He did not seem the slightest bit interested in her children and it made Rose annoyed. If he was not prepared to be kind to them, then he was not the man for her. The sooner he stopped staring at her in that peculiar way and went the better.
Rose busied herself around the kitchen rather than have to sit and talk to John. She poured a fresh bowl of water for Margaret, but before she could retreat with it to the bedroom, Elizabeth stopped her.
‘I’ll take that,’ she said quietly, and escaped from the tense kitchen with the bowl.
Maggie began issuing orders again. ‘Sarah, go and wake your Uncle Danny and Grandpa and tell ‘em it’s tea time - and bring some more coal in for the fire. Kate, your hands are filthy, go and wash.’
Kate looked at her mother and Rose nodded. She disappeared into the scullery, still clutching Mary, and Maggie followed her, closing the door. Rose was suddenly left alone with John. Her heart began to thump in panic.
He stood up and stepped towards her. She must have shown her alarm, because he stopped, his face colouring.
‘I’m sorry,’ he b
lurted out. ‘I’m sorry for yer being widowed. You and the bairns. That’s what I came to say.’ He glared at her as if the whole embarrassing situation was somehow her fault. ‘And I’ll tak them on - if you want,’ he growled, his neck and face puce above the red jacket. ‘I’ve got a pension off the army. We could live decent. You cannot stop with Maggie and Danny for ever, not with them starting a family. And I want bairns too - and neither of us are gettin’ any younger. So do you want to get wed, Rose?’
She stared back at him, quite speechless. She was dumbfounded at his no-nonsense bluntness.
‘I - I don’t— I can’t. . .’ she stuttered.
What sort of courtship was this? How could he put her in such an awkward position? It allowed her no dignity, no time to think it over. Damn him, she was still in mourning for William! She would not be bullied into such an important decision by his haste or Maggie’s impatience. Worse still, the thought of bearing more children filled her with horror. Rose could countenance being a housekeeper for another man, but to embark once more on the mess of the marriage bed and pain of childbirth with a man other than William filled her with repugnance. She might once have had girlish dreams about John, but those days were long gone. He could never replace her beloved William.
It came to her clearly that she could not contemplate becoming John’s wife, however desperate her circumstances. At least while she worked at the mill and provided for her daughters she was free from the demands of a husband. And looking at John’s hunched aggressive stance, she suspected his demands would be many.
‘You don’t have to answer me now,’ John said quickly, worried that she might reject him outright. ‘I’ll not stop for tea,’ he said hastily. ‘I’ll call on you next Sunday and you can tell me your answer.’ He grabbed his cap and turned to go.
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 20