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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Rose saw the look of shock on John’s face ignite into fury. She grabbed the arm that he raised before he could strike the fortune-teller.

  ‘Stop, John!’ she cried. ‘Come away from her! She’s just mischief-making.’

  He tried to throw her off, but Rose was strong too and clung to his side. She pushed him away. The gypsy did not flinch or take her look from his face. Rose’s heart thumped in fright. It was as if the woman was cursing her husband with her all-knowing eyes and mysterious words.

  The girls crowded round their mother, confused and upset by the angry exchange. Elizabeth began to cry. Two men appeared from out of a makeshift tent and stood silently beside the red-haired woman.

  ‘Please, John!’ Rose hissed.

  At the sight of the men, John hesitated, then started shouting abuse as he walked away. He cursed the woman and told her she was a disgrace to old Ireland. As they jostled past people in the crowd, he pointed at her and shouted out that she was a charlatan and a thief.

  By the time they had trekked back into the city and fought their way on to a crowded train, Rose was feeling quite unwell. She silently railed at the spiteful woman for ruining their day out and souring John’s humour. The children sat jaded and subdued, no one answering Kate’s questions about the strange lady.

  ‘Are we not getting the baby now?’ she asked as they disembarked at Jarrow station.

  ‘Shut your gob about it!’ John shouted. ‘I don’t want to hear mention of that witch again - or any of her daft rubbish.’

  Chapter 29

  Because of John’s anger at the gypsy’s words, Rose said nothing about the creeping tiredness that swept over her each afternoon, or the bile that rose in her throat as she prepared the girls’ tea. The smell of meat pies sent her rushing to retch in the scullery sink. Long before the end of the summer, Rose knew she was pregnant again, and must have been for some time by the spreading of her waist.

  Eventually, John noticed how her breasts were swelling and how she could only drink her tea as weak as dishwater. Rose was nervous at his response, her mind still plagued by the gypsy’s ominous words and malicious cursing. She dreamt often of a ship being wrecked on the black rocks off Shields and her children, sodden and shoeless, searching for shelter.

  But John was overjoyed. ‘A bairn of our own!’ he cried, hugging her thickening body. ‘That’s grand news! Wait till I tell me mother and Father O’Brien.’

  ‘So it doesn’t worry you?’ Rose asked cautiously. ‘After what that lass said ...?’

  He gave her a sharp look. ‘I told you never to mention her again,’ he warned. ‘I’ll not have you being scared by her talk - or the baby harmed. We’re going to have a son, Rose, I know it. Maybe even twins or triplets - it runs in me family. A whole crop of lads.’

  Rose felt weak at the thought, but said nothing. Silently, she prayed that it would not be a son, if only to break the hold the gypsy’s words had over her. She wanted to prove the prophesy wrong, so that none of the other nightmarish images of storms and rocks and tinkers would come true either.

  As the autumn wore on and Rose felt the baby grow and turn in her womb, the memory of the incident on the Town Moor dimmed. By late October, when she was lumbering breathlessly down the back lane watching out for the girls returning from school, she had shaken off her feeling of dread. It had been mere coincidence that the Irish girl had guessed she was carrying a baby, nothing more sinister.

  Then, as the raw east wind blew in from the North Sea in late November, Rose’s new peace of mind was shattered. One Monday, she lifted the cracked Jubilee mug from the mantelpiece and fished inside for threepence to send with the girls to school. She kept all her housekeeping money in Margaret’s old mug, the only one of the set not pawned after William’s death. It was empty. Yet on Friday it had held a fortnight’s rent money and enough to see them through the coming week. Every Thursday, John shaved and put on his jacket and went to collect his army pension and put a share of it in the mug for the household bills. How much he kept for himself she never knew and felt she couldn’t ask.

  Rose searched around the hearth to see if the money had spilt when one of the girls had reached up for a taper or match. Not a farthing could she find anywhere. She turned accusingly on Sarah, who was nearest.

  ‘Have you been pinching from the mug? ‘Cos if you have I’ll have your guts for garters!’

  ‘No, Mam,’ Sarah protested. ‘I never!’

  ‘Elizabeth? Kate?’ Rose demanded, her voice rising. ‘Where’s me money?’

  Kate stared at her nonplussed, but Elizabeth’s look was anxious, almost guilty.

  Rose lunged forward and grabbed her by the arm. ‘What’ve you done with it?’

  She cried out, ‘You’re hurting me! I haven’t touched the money, honest.’

  Rose hardened herself against the girl’s frightened look. She’d die of shame if one of her daughters had taken to stealing. ‘You know some’at, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye - no - I don’t know much.’ She winced at Rose’s rough handling.

  ‘Mam,’ Kate tried to intervene, ‘don’t hurt our Lizzie.’

  ‘Tell me what you do know,’ Rose ordered. ‘Cos there’s no money for school till you do. I’ll have you scrubbing doorsteps till next year if you don’t spit it out. And heaven knows what the father will say!’

  ‘It’s him,’ Elizabeth whispered, tears springing to her eyes. ‘The father.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Rose was baffled.

  ‘I saw him take the money out the mug,’ she confessed. ‘On Saturday, when you were having a nap upstairs. I thought he’d just taken a couple of pennies for his baccy.’

  Rose felt sick. ‘A couple of pennies? There’s nowt left!’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d taken it all, Mam,’ Elizabeth said in distress. ‘Please don’t tell him I told you. Please, Mam.’ She burst into tears.

  Rose looked at her in dismay, quickly putting her arms around her daughter.

  ‘Haway, hinny, it’s not your fault. He must’ve had his reasons.’ She wiped Elizabeth’s eyes with her apron. ‘You get yourselves off to school and tell Miss Quinlan I’ll pay her the morrow.’ She pushed her gently away. ‘Off you go, or you’ll be strapped for being late.’

  After the girls had gone, Rose moved restlessly about the kitchen boiling up water for the weekly wash, her heart pounding uncomfortably and her hands clammy. She waited for John to emerge, thinking back to Saturday afternoon. He had been out until early evening and had come back with the smell of drink on his breath, but not drunk. She had not seen him the worse for drink since the episode over Mary in the summer.

  When he strolled into the kitchen, she had a bowl of porridge warming for him on the stove and a pot of tea brewing.

  ‘I seem to have run out of housekeeping already,’ she said as lightly as her trembling voice would allow. ‘Can you lend us some more? I need suet for dumplings the night - and the lasses had to gan to school without their pennies.”

  ‘School,’ John muttered. ‘What’s a big lass like Elizabeth doing still at school? She should be looking for a place.’

  Rose hid her irritation. ‘She’s just turned eleven. Miss Quinlan thinks she’s bright enough to be a monitress - even a pupil teacher in time. I want her to stay on.’

  ‘And I say she should be earning her keep at her age,’ John said bad-temperedly, snatching the porridge bowl from Rose.

  ‘With a bit more learning she could bring in a better wage,’ Rose pointed out, wondering why he was being so belligerent all of a sudden. ‘In the meantime we’re managing canny on your army pension.’

  It was something about the defensive hunch of his shoulders, the way he avoided her look, that made Rose’s stomach lurch in alarm. She put protective hands on her womb as it tightened and her baby stirred. Her h
eart raced like a train.

  ‘John?’ she gasped. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me what you’ve done with the rent money.’

  Still he would not look at her, but she saw the red flush rise from his neck into his tense jawline.

  ‘I’m off to see about a job at the mill the day,’ he told her by way of an answer. ‘You’ll have the money by the end of the week. You’ll just have to manage till then.’

  She gawped at him. ‘Manage with what? You’ll have to give us a bit of your baccy money or some’at.’

  ‘Haven’t got owt,’ he growled.

  ‘But your army pay. .. ?’

  He looked at her for the first time, his eyes defiant. ‘Gone.’

  Rose felt faint. ‘Gone? What d’you mean? Has someone nicked your weekly pay?’

  ‘No, woman!’ he barked in irritation. ‘Not just this week’s. It’s all gone - spent - there’s nowt left.’

  But - but I thought there was plenty. . . ?’

  ‘You cannot complain,’ he answered bullishly. ‘I’ve spent every penny on you and your lasses. You can’t say I haven’t been good to you.’

  Rose pressed her moist fingers against her throbbing forehead. ‘But the baby,’ she gulped, her throat drying and pulse drumming in panic. ‘We need things for the baby.’ She looked at him accusingly. ‘You should’ve told me the money was running out.’

  ‘I never said it would last for ever!’ He banged down his spoon. ‘Look around you, Rose. You’re the one wanted all this - that’s where all the money’s gone. Keeping you like a stuck-up lady, trying to keep up with Fawcett!’ He sprang up and toppled back his chair. ‘Well, I’m not William bloody Fawcett! I’m John McMullen and proud of it. I’m as hard-working as the next man and I’ll soon have a job. You’ll have to manage the housekeeping better than you do - me mother brought up thirteen of us on a lot less.’

  Rose was indignant. ‘You’ll not blame me for your spendthrift ways! I didn’t ask for half of the second-hand furniture that clutters up this house. And I’m not the one who spends Saturday in the pub and gambles on the horses!’

  John glared at her. ‘Watch your tongue! It’s my money and I’ll spend it how I see fit.’

  ‘Aye, and spend it you have!’ Rose derided. ‘There’s nowt left to spend, remember? Now how are we going to clothe the baby when it comes?’

  Mention of the baby seemed to rile John all the more. He grabbed at the tablecloth and whipped it off the table, sending the bowl of porridge crashing to the floor.

  ‘Here, you can sell this!’ he cried, waving it in her face. ‘And this!’ He kicked a horsehair stool the girls used. ‘And that weddin’ ring you keep around your neck and think I don’t notice.’

  Rose took a step back, her hands going protectively to her throat. ‘Stop it,’ she whispered in fright.

  ‘And after you’ve been down the pawnshop,’ he snarled, ‘you can see about a job for that lazy daughter of yours. If she’s so good with bairns, she can bring in a wage lookin’ after someone else’s. She’ll not grow up with ideas above herself in my house, do you understand?’

  Rose looked at him appalled. His face was puce with anger, the veins standing out on his high forehead, his moustache flecked with spittle. Never had she seen him so furious, but to have such anger directed at her shook her to the core. If she had not been pregnant, she might have stood up to him and carried on answering back. She was no coward and the trials she had undergone and survived had made her a harder person. The foremen at the puddling mill had learnt she was not one to be pushed around.

  But she felt vulnerable standing there, breathless and heavy with her unborn child. She could not risk the danger of John’s wrath any further. Her eyes defied him, but she said as calmly as possible, ‘Aye, I understand.’

  For a moment they stood staring at each other, an atmosphere of anger and mistrust settling around them like the dark dust of the town. Then John strode to the back door without a further word, grabbing his jacket and cap from the nail. He flung open the door and marched out, leaving it wide. An icy wind gusted into the room.

  Rose felt paralysed but knew she had to keep moving to keep the demons of fear inside her at bay. She bent to pick up the bowl, which miraculously had not smashed, and began to scrape up the cooling, sticky porridge. He’d get it again tomorrow, she promised herself defiantly.

  An hour later, she had made up a parcel of household linen and crockery and left the house, dressed in her heavy cape and black widow’s bonnet. Rose determined not to go to Slater’s in the town where she might be recognised, but set out instead for the long walk into South Shields. No doubt there were those who thought it just a matter of time before she would be resorting to the pawnshop - the price for marrying a McMullen. Rose knew her former mother-in-law would have said so. Well, she would not give the people of Jarrow the satisfaction of seeing her haggling at the ‘in and out’.

  By the time she reached Shields, Rose was so exhausted she would have taken anything for her offerings. But the pawnbroker took pity on such a heavily pregnant customer, and she got nearly the asking price for her bundle. She would have to put the rent man off, but she had enough for the week’s food. And there was threepence left over for the girls’ schooling, Rose thought with fierce satisfaction, as she turned for home.

  Chapter 30

  The walk to the pawnshop in Shields proved too much for Rose. The next day she could hardly climb out of bed. Her legs had swollen to double their normal size and sharp pain stabbed between her legs. Despite the cost, John called out the doctor. He ordered complete bed rest and waived his fee.

  ‘I’ve a house and bairns to look after,’ Rose fretted. But John was full of concern, his temper of the day before cooled.

  ‘Elizabeth can help out while you’re restin’,’ he insisted. Soon he was keeping the older girl off school to take her mother’s place running the home.

  Rose felt guilty, but enjoyed having her easy-going daughter in the house.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mam,’ Elizabeth assured. ‘I can do me lessons at home till you’re better.’

  At the beginning of December, John secured regular work carrying pig iron to the puddling mill and Rose’s worrying eased a fraction. Still, she had to send Elizabeth to the pawnshop twice more, with parcels of clothing and trinkets that John had bought her in the first flush of his passion.

  ‘As soon as this baby’s born, I’ll be right as rain,’ Rose told her eldest, ‘and you can gan back to school. Back end of January.’

  Elizabeth’s smile looked uncertain, but she said, ‘Aye, of course, Mam.’

  So it came as a complete shock to Rose when she went into labour one dark December day, shortly after Sarah’s tenth birthday. She was on her own in the house; John was at work, the younger girls were at school and Elizabeth had walked into Shields for some cheap fish.

  At first, Rose refused to believe what was happening to her. She had lain shivering and sweating all morning, not feeling well, and then the griping in her stomach had turned abruptly to sharp contractions.

  ‘It’s not time,’ she cried out loud in the cold, bare bedroom. ‘Me baby’s not fully made!’

  But there was no one to hear her and no one to help, when half an hour later, water gushed from between her legs and soaked the bed. Then the pains really began - red-hot searing pain that wrapped around her belly like iron manacles and squeezed until she nearly passed out.

  She had to get help! Somehow she had to get off the bed and attract someone’s attention at the window or bang on the wall. Rose took deep breaths to calm herself, but her chest felt heavy and her breathing sounded loud in her ears. She had to keep her head and do things nice and easy, she told herself. No harm would come to her and Elizabeth would be back soon to fetch help. There was nothing about childbirth that she did not already know, so there was
no need to panic. But the pain! Mary Mother! She had forgotten what agony.

  Rose gripped the side of the bed and hauled herself on to her feet between contractions. Her legs were still swollen and her ankles buckled under the sudden weight. She fell forward, banging her head on the metal bedframe. For a moment she was stunned, then crumpled forward, not knowing whether to clutch her head or her belly. She crouched on all fours like an animal, gasping for breath and trying to swallow the bile that rose in her throat. Then another spasm seized her body and she cried out for mercy.

  When the worst of the pain passed, she crumpled forward on her arms and started to weep.

  ‘I can’t go through this again,’ she sobbed. ‘Just let me die.’

  She remembered now how she had sworn never to bear another child after Mary. And that was three years ago when she had not been worn down by the puddling mills and living hand-to-mouth. Now she felt she had the body of an old woman and this child within her - this McMullen - was pummelling and tearing her to pieces.

  ‘I hate you, John McMullen!’ she shrieked at her dismal surroundings. ‘You’re killing me. I’ll never have another bairn. You’ll not come near me again, not ever.’

  With her tirade went the last of her energy. Rose remembered little of what happened next or how long it took for the baby to come. All she was aware of was hot relentless pain, her panting and screaming like a wild animal and the pressure of the baby between her shaking legs like a dead weight.

  She gave birth there, on the bare wooden floor, her nightgown soaking and blood-stained. Rose looked down through a blur of tears and sweat at the crinkled bloodied scrap between her knees and saw a shock of dark hair. It gave a small choking cough and instantly she leant forward to clear its mouth. The baby spluttered, then started a quiet whimpering. Rose felt a wave of relief and pulled the bed shawl that was dangling over the bed to wrap around her tiny newborn.