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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘I was ganin’ to ask you the same,’ John grunted.

  He was not going to tell her that he had got so drunk the night before that he had lost his way home and stumbled into the monastery ruins, finally finding shelter in an outhouse of the old rectory under a pile of sacking. Waking stiff and cold, he had wended his way down the Don, cursing the thudding in his head until he caught sight of the lonely figure standing by the Slake. It seemed to mirror his own feeling of isolation, of being cut off from the people around him, however crowded his surroundings.

  Ever since his return from India he had felt himself different, set apart by his journeying and soldiering. He had no words to describe what he had experienced: blinding sun on rock, the smell of heat, raging thirst, the chatter of a foreign tongue around the village oven, the terrifying sound of an enemy charge.

  Much of the time he had fought tedium rather than tribesmen, had longed for cold rain, a green riverbank, a coal fire. But he had also lived with danger, felt the gut-wrenching fear and exhilaration of living on the brink of death and surviving. It was not the debilitating danger of poverty, the long-drawn-out anxieties of slump and fever that faced people on Tyneside for years on end. His had been a glorious danger written about in the London newspapers; he had been one of Lord Roberts’s heroes in the Afghan campaigns.

  But what good had it done him? The faraway war was long forgotten, as was their gruelling march across parched merciless terrain from Kabul to Kandahar. They had marched till they dropped, half mad with fatigue and hunger. Roberts, from his horse, had forced them onwards. He had become a national hero, rewarded for his daring. But the men, John thought bitterly, had been pensioned off and forgotten about.

  Where once he had hankered after Jarrow and to be able to boast around its pubs, now all he craved was one hot day in the sun, listening to the banter of his fellow soldiers. At times he longed for that heightened sense of living, the headiness of existing for the moment, rather than the drabness of civilian life. He seemed forever cursed with not being able to have what he wanted, with being in one place and hankering after another.

  Catching sight of the forlorn figure on the banks of the Slake, John had been struck by their common unhappiness. Here was another desperate soul, he felt sure of it. Yet his first impulse was to turn and avoid a meeting. It was just some broken woman who had had enough - let her throw herself in if she wanted. He watched the woman pitch forward, half fascinated to see how long she would take to drown. But when she had started to shout and struggle against death, John had acted instantly. Some instinct deep within, or maybe it was just his training, made him jump in after her and pull her to safety.

  What a shock it had been to find Rose Fawcett in his arms! This woman who plagued his thoughts, who attracted him yet rebuffed and humiliated him with her rejection of marriage. Would he never be rid of her?

  Rose could not answer his question of why she was there. She was too ashamed to admit that she had tried to take her own life. What a coward she was! But she could see from the harsh look on his wolfish face that he already knew. It would give him further cause to despise and mock her. She hung her head.

  ‘Well, Rose?’ he demanded. ‘What were you thinking of? With all them lasses depending on you! Were you ganin’ to leave Maggie with all your troubles?’

  Rose nodded, unable to face him. He let out an oath.

  ‘What kind of mother are you?’ he asked angrily. ‘It’s not as if folk haven’t tried to help you! But you’re too proud for that, aren’t you, Mrs Fawcett?’ he said scornfully. ‘You threw my offer to wed back in me face – but you’d risk your mortal soul by hoying yoursel’ in the Slacks instead!’

  Rose looked up. She was shaking so violently with cold and remorse that she could hardly speak through chattering teeth. ‘Ay-aye - I-I know,’ she whispered, meeting his hard look. His frank words were more than she could bear. ‘I d-didn’t know what else to do—’ She broke down sobbing.

  John’s chiselled face showed no flicker of sympathy. ‘I never thought you’d be the kind of lass to give up and desert your bairns - and you from good Irish stock. You must’ve gone soft, being married to Fawcett.’

  Rose was aghast. ‘Don’t you speak ill of the dead,’ she hissed at him. ‘William was a good man, the best husband and father there ever was!’

  John was riled by her words. He hated to think of Rose so happy with his old rival. ‘He was weak,’ John growled. ‘Mam said you had to gan skivvying for the Anglicans whenever he got sick. And look at you now! He’s left you and the bairns with nowt - and you with your Irish spirit knocked out of you.’

  ‘Don’t you preach at me,’ Rose cried in fury. ‘You’ve never been married or had to watch your bairn get sick and not be able to stop her dying! You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone so dear. You’ve always just thought of yourself and where your next drink’s coming from. I’ve lost a grand husband, and Margaret - me canny, canny lass.’

  She covered her face in her hands and wept in distress. Moments before, she had been relieved to see him, grateful at her deliverance. Yet within minutes John had succeeded in upsetting her again. He was hateful for his unkind words! What use was it trying to make such a heartless man understand the depths of her grief? Rose crouched over her knees as if she could protect herself better from his verbal assault, hoping he would get up and leave her alone.

  The last thing she expected was to feel his hand on her shoulder. She flinched in shock, looking up in alarm. Her distrust of him must have shown, for he quickly pulled back. But his expression had changed. John looked shaken by her outburst. Without a word, he slipped off his crumpled jacket and held it out to her. Rose did not move or attempt to take it. John edged forward and wrapped it around her cold wet shoulders.

  ‘You’ll catch a chill,’ he said gruffly.

  What he yearned to say to her was that he did know how she felt. Her grief-stricken words had stirred up the deeply buried pain over his dead Sultana, but more especially his sweet daughter, Ruth. Was it ever possible for such a deep wound to heal? Looking at Rose’s haggard, tear-swollen face, John doubted it. In that moment, he felt the loss as keenly as on the day he learned of their deaths. He looked at Rose and wanted to shield her from the raw hurt and despair that tore at her heart too.

  Overcoming his fear at touching her, of being rebuffed, John tightened his jacket further about her and put an arm around her back. He tensed and waited. But Rose did not shrink away from him in disgust. She continued to weep and look at him with large despairing eyes. He pulled her into his hold and gently stroked her matted hair.

  ‘I’m so unhappy,’ Rose sobbed. ‘I miss them that much!’

  ‘I know,’ John whispered and held her tighter, ‘I know.’

  Rose was perplexed by his sudden kindness, suspicious even. But she was too exhausted to care why he had stopped haranguing her. It was such a relief to feel someone’s arms enfold her and give her warmth. She had not felt a man’s arms around her in so long; she had forgotten how comforting it was. And John’s were strong and protective, his hold surprisingly tender. She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  John thrilled at the feel of Rose in his arms, the trusting weight of her body against his. He dared to kiss her lightly on her hair.

  ‘I’m sorry for the things I said to you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s a terrible thing to lose a bairn - the worst kind of thing. And I had no right to say them cruel words about your husband. It was just me jealousy.’

  ‘Jealousy?’ Rose questioned. ‘Why should you have been jealous of William?’

  John gave a groan. ‘Oh, Rose lass! You must have known how much I cared for you? Wasn’t it obvious at our Michael’s wedding when we danced together? I kissed you, remember?’

  Rose did and it was not a pleasant memory. He had tasted of stale whisky and made he
r feel nauseous after William’s sweet kiss.

  ‘But you were just drunk,’ Rose said, embarrassed by the turn of conversation.

  ‘Maybes,’ John grunted, ‘but I thought the world of you, drunk or sober. I hated the way Fawcett could say clever things and make you laugh and smile at him.’ He murmured into her hair, ‘I thought that night that maybe you did care for me a bit - dancing with me and letting me kiss you. That’s why I came up Simonside with that bunch of flowers,’ John admitted ruefully. ‘You weren’t in, but you must’ve found them. They were the only flowers I’ve ever picked for a lass - or ever will. Daft of me! No doubt you and your sisters had a good laugh over it.’

  Rose sat up and stared at him, the memory of the wild flowers on the doorstep coming back to her. She had thought they were from William. It was those flowers that had spurred her on in her courtship of her husband! But all the time they had been from John. He had unwittingly thrown her and William closer together by his romantic gesture.

  ‘I never knew they were from you,’ Rose whispered.

  He looked at her sharply, but he could see the astonishment on her face. John sighed. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now. Wouldn’t have made any difference any road, would it? You were Fawcett’s lass, I could see that. That’s why I joined the army - wasn’t going to stop around to see the pair of you wed.’

  Rose shook her head in disbelief. ‘You never joined the army because of me?’

  ‘Aye, I did.’ John flushed, suddenly embarrassed by his admission. He was seldom so loose-tongued when sober. Rose could make him do and say things that no other woman had ever done.

  Rose could not help but be flattered by his candid confession. To think that the taciturn youth who used to tease and frighten her had been sweet on her all along! Her sisters had seen it, but Rose had dismissed their ribald comments as nonsense. She thought of her and John’s first walk together back to Simonside with the bag of cinders, and how her interest in him had been sparked by his passionate talk of Ireland. As a young lass, before her heart had been won by William, had she not also been interested in the darkly handsome John? Rose blushed to think of it.

  Sitting so close to him now, with his brawny arm still heavy on her shoulder, she realised that he still had brooding good looks, despite his weather-ravaged face. His jaw was strong and angular, his nose long and straight, his eyes a mesmerising green. Her pulse began to beat more rapidly at the thought of their proximity.

  ‘I never said thank you for you saving me life,’ she said hoarsely, ‘but I’m glad that you did.’

  He scrutinised her face. ‘Aye, so am I.’

  For a minute, neither of them spoke, but both were aware that the atmosphere had changed. There was a heightening of feeling between them.

  ‘How will you manage, Rose?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I just know I can’t be separated from me bairns. I’ll do anything to keep us from the workhouse and being split up. That would kill me for sure.’

  He fumbled for her hand and held it firmly in his. She felt her numb fingers tingle in his warm grip.

  ‘Marry me, Rose,’ he rasped. ‘Let me look after you and the lasses. I have me faults, I’ll grant you - I’m not a saint like Fawcett - but I’ll do me best for you lass, that I promise.’

  Rose felt tears sting her eyes. She was touched by his fond words and earnest expression. Hope leapt in her heart. Perhaps John could give her and the girls a secure future, as well as a rough, bashful love. By the saints, she could hardly be any worse off than she was now! She imagined how relieved Maggie and Danny would be at such a marriage. But what of the girls? There was no reason why they should not grow fond of John as a stepfather in time. Maybe all he needed was a good wife to love him back, to curb his wilder nature, and then the fighting and drinking would be things of the past. She would take courage from such a thought.

  Rose smiled at him tremulously. ‘Aye, John, I will,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll marry you.’

  He stared at her in amazement. ‘You will?’ he demanded.

  Rose nodded and smiled more broadly.

  John gave a cry of triumph. Laughing, he seized her chin in his rough hand and planted a lusty kiss on her lips.

  Chapter 26

  Rose and John were married in a quiet ceremony at the beginning of May. Rose was still in mourning for Margaret and so wore her black dress of bombazet, trimmed for the occasion with white lace at the collar and cuffs, taken from Lizzie’s wedding dress. Her only piece of jewellery was a mourning necklace woven with strands of Margaret’s fair hair.

  ‘Won’t John mind you wearing widow’s clothes?’ Maggie asked anxiously.

  ‘That’s what I am,’ Rose answered brusquely. ‘Anyways, it’s me only smart dress. He won’t have to mind.’

  And John didn’t. ‘Doesn’t matter what you wear, lass,’ he assured, ‘as long as you wed me.’

  Rose was charmed by his eager attentiveness to her in the days before they were married. He would appear at the garden gate, scrubbed, shaven and dressed in his army jacket, his hair wetted and combed into place. He brought small gifts - a lace handkerchief for her, a twist of lemon drops for the girls - and stayed to tea. Rose was delighted that he came sober and without the slightest hint of drink on his breath. They would walk out beyond the smallholding, across the fields to the stream, with Sarah and Kate scampering behind at a distance, and talk of the future.

  ‘I’ve found a place to rent,’ John told her proudly one evening.

  ‘Where?’ Rose asked, turning to him in excitement.

  ‘House in Albion Street,’ he grinned. She tried not to show her disappointment. It was in a crowded part of the town, hemmed in by the coke and steel works.

  ‘It’s got four rooms,’ he added quickly.

  Rose brightened. ‘Four rooms? Tell me about it.’

  ‘Parlour at the front, kitchen at the back and two bedchambers upstairs. One for the lasses, one for us,’ he said, pinching her cheek.

  Rose flushed. ‘Can we afford it?’

  ‘Course we can,’ John said indulgently. ‘I’ve got me army pension and I can pick up carrying work easily enough.’

  ‘I suppose I could stay on at the mill for a bit till we get sorted,’ Rose suggested half-heartedly.

  ‘No you won’t,’ John was adamant. ‘I’ll not have my wife slaving in that place. You’ll stop at home and keep house for me and the bairns. I’ll do the providin’.’

  Rose felt utter relief at the thought of never having to face the furnace of the puddling mill again. Daily she felt the poisonous, debilitating fumes weakening her body, leaving her breathless and limp. At times, violent pains stabbed her stomach and when these subsided, lethargy would settle on her like a winding sheet. Just in time, John had saved her from complete exhaustion and an early death, she was sure of it.

  ‘We’ll need furniture.’ Rose began planning ahead eagerly. ‘I’ve got little to bring from here - just the bed and the feather mattress, a few pots and candlesticks.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that,’ John nodded. ‘We’ll get some stuff from the store - a dresser and a canny oval table with chairs. Me brothers’ll help shift it.’

  Rose slipped her arm shyly through his and smiled. She had no idea John had this much money to spend and it made him the more attractive. ‘To have me own home again -I can hardly believe it. I cannot thank you enough for taking on me and the bairns.’

  John leant towards her and lowered his voice so the girls could not hear. ‘There’s only one way you can show your thanks, Rose Ann, and that’s to be me wife - truly me wife in every way.’

  Her heart began to thump at his words and the way he looked her over keenly with his vivid eyes. It made her uncomfortable the way he could be so proper one moment and suggestive the next. The consummatio
n of their marriage had never been mentioned, though Rose remembered only too well that it had been the reason for her refusing his proposal before. He had been furiously disdainful of her offer to be his housekeeper but not lie with him. She remembered with unease how he had said he wanted her to bear him sons.

  But since his rescue of her from the Slake and the eager kiss that had sealed their betrothal, Rose was not so averse to the idea of sharing John’s bed. She felt the stirring of interest in such intimacy that she had thought never to feel again.

  ‘I’ve said I’ll be your wife,’ she answered quietly.

  He smiled in satisfaction and she knew he wanted to kiss her, but she pulled away, too aware of the girls chattering behind them. She saw annoyance flicker across his face.

  ‘Haway, Rose,’ he urged, ‘just a little one.’

  ‘Not here,’ she murmured, seeing that Sarah and Kate had stopped to watch them with interest. Elizabeth stood further off, trying to contain a fractious Mary.

  He turned on them crossly. ‘What you lookin’ at?’

  The girls were startled, then Kate piped up, ‘Are you ganin’ to kiss me mam?’

  Sarah giggled; Elizabeth looked anxious. Rose exclaimed, ‘Kate, don’t be so cheeky!’

  ‘And what if I was?’ John demanded, stepping nearer. ‘Your mam and me are going to be wed and we’ll do as we please.’

  Kate smiled, undaunted. ‘She used to kiss me da, an’ all.’

  John’s face clouded and for one awful moment Rose thought he was going to strike her daughter. She half stepped forward to intervene, when he suddenly relaxed and barked with laughter.

  ‘Well, in a week’s time I’m ganin’ to be your da,’ he said, ruffling her hair. He glanced at Rose as he added, ‘And I’ll be the only man she’ll be kissing from now on.’

  Only one matter marred the preparations for Rose. Florrie and Albert refused to come to the wedding. She received a terse note from Mrs Fawcett, written in Albert’s hand, condemning her for remarrying. In her mother-in-law’s eyes, she was betraying William and committing a sin by taking another man. A respectable widow should never remarry and she disowned Rose for doing so. She and Florrie would have no more to do with her or her family.