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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘We’ve managed in worse places,’ Rose said defensively. ‘There’re still decent folk live round there, don’t you forget that. Don’t judge a book by its cover.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ Kate cried in desperation, ‘but I could never bring him home to such a place!’ It was out before she could stop herself.

  Rose stared at her, first in disbelief, then with shock as realisation dawned. ‘Your gentleman,’ Rose whispered, ‘you’re talking about him, aren’t you?’

  Kate bit her lip, furious with herself for speaking her thoughts. They were wild thoughts, dreams that might come to nothing. And because of her impetuous words she had hurt her mother, she could tell by the wounded look on the older woman’s face.

  ‘You’re ashamed of us,’ Rose said, feeling numb inside. ‘You’re ashamed of your own mother.’

  ‘No, Mam!’ Kate cried, grabbing her mother’s arm. ‘Not of you.’ Her pretty face was pleading. ‘Please believe I’d never be ashamed of you. It’s just Leam Lane and -’

  Rose felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I know - your father,’ she finished for her.

  ‘He’s not me father,’ Kate said in a voice full of rancour.

  Rose pulled away. ‘He’s kept a roof over our heads all these years - including yours. He at least deserves your respect for that.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘You did that, not him.

  Rose looked at her daughter and felt overwhelming sadness. A huge gulf separated them and it was of her own making. She had encouraged Kate to go away and better herself, yearned for the day she would return with a ring on her finger, having won the heart of a respectable, prosperous man. How could she blame her for wanting to distance herself from the grubby, noisy poverty of Tyne Dock? Wherever they lived, Rose realised too late, Kate would probably shun them. That must be why she had been so coy about telling them she was courting. She wanted to keep her admirer and her new life quite separate from her old.

  ‘Is he so very grand?’ Rose asked quietly, searching her daughter’s face.

  Kate hardly dared meet her mother’s look. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  Suddenly Rose was filled with foreboding. Had Kate set her sights too high? Was she involved with someone too far above her station for safety? On impulse she stepped towards Kate and pulled her close, gathering her arms about the girl’s slender shoulders.

  ‘Oh, lass, I fear for you!’

  ‘Oh, Mam, don’t!’

  Kate clung to her mother as she had not done since childhood and wept. She had thought never to feel her strong hug again. Her mother seemed to have forgotten how to touch them these past years. But it felt so good now! She felt strength flow from the older woman to her and give her courage.

  ‘I know you’d like him. He’s kind and funny and so handsome. I don’t know what he sees in me.’

  ‘Don’t you do yourself down,’ Rose declared. ‘You were meant for better things than skivvying. You hold your head up high when you walk out with this Mr— what do you call him?’

  ‘Pringle-Davies.’ Kate blushed.

  ‘Aye, Pringle . . .’ What was it about the name that was familiar? Rose struggled to remember. There was something Kate had said about him before that had sparked off a half-memory. No, it had gone. It did not matter now. Having Kate holding on so affectionately was weakening her resolve to let her daughter go.

  With difficulty, Rose pulled away. She would not break down in front of Kate. She had not stayed strong for her all these years to betray herself as weak now. Rose gulped back the tears in her throat. How she wanted to protect her daughter!

  ‘You’re right,’ Rose said hoarsely, ‘don’t let him come here. If you’ve a chance of happiness, lass, take it. By God, you take it!’

  They looked at each other, both shaking with the cold and the emotion that clawed at their insides. Kate reached forward to touch her once more, but Rose drew back. She did not trust herself to embrace the girl again; she would not have the strength to let her go.

  ‘But whatever you do and wherever you go,’ Rose added stoutly, ‘don’t you ever be ashamed of who you are. You’ve had good parents - God-fearing parents who’ve brought you up to do right, however poor we’ve been.’ She raised her hand and lightly touched Kate’s cheek as if in farewell. ‘Remember you were born a Fawcett - you were your da’s favourite. I’ve given you that - so be proud of it. Make me proud of you, lass!’

  She withdrew her hand swiftly and turned away.

  ‘Mam,’ Kate rasped, ‘don’t go!’

  But Rose kept on walking towards the cottage. They both knew that in that moment of truth when Rose had laid bare her feelings, she was also letting go. Rose did not look back; she could not in case her resolve wavered. She would rather her daughter went back to Lamesley and never saw her again, disowned her family, if it meant a chance at happiness with a man above her station who could give her security. Although the pain of separation would be raw, she would give up her daughter for William’s sake - for her beloved William’s memory!

  As she reached the door, Rose heard Kate sob, ‘I will, Mam - I’ll make you proud!’

  Rose glanced round and gasped to see Kate’s features caught in the golden light of the winter sunset. Her tear-stained face looked beatific. There was no other way to describe it. At that moment she had the face of an angel.

  The gypsy’s words rang in her ears. At the end of her life she would be blessed with an angel child. Kate would give her that angel child, Rose was certain of it. Ever since she had first seen Lord Ravensworth’s daughter married and in her childish mind confused her radiant face with that of the moon, Rose believed she had been looked after by a guardian angel. How else to explain how she had survived all that she had been through? It was all for a purpose. All roads had led here to this moment of clarity. Kate was her chosen one. She would carry on where Rose could not. In time she would bring her greater joy. Rose smiled at her daughter, then opened the door and went inside.

  Kate was left trembling in the dark, weeping at the weight of responsibility she felt pressing upon her. She had seen it in her mother’s eyes, heard it in the way she spoke of Kate’s real father. Her mother had freed her from her stepfather’s dominance, but in return there was a price to pay. Rose expected the world from her.

  Kate looked up into the late afternoon sky, already dark. There was just a glimpse of a new moon hanging over the copse, lifting like the sail of a ship. A new beginning. Kate took heart from the omen. She turned and looked behind her, to the south where Ravensworth and her other existence lay.

  ‘Oh, Mam,’ she whispered in the frosty stillness, ‘I wish I had as much faith in myself as you do - and as stout a heart.’

  Then she thought of the man she loved, the man with auburn hair and dark eyes that danced with dangerous merriment. The man with the deep voice that flattered and teased and told her she was beautiful. The man of a hundred tales who claimed his mother had been a Liddell who had eloped with a coachman named Pringle. The man who tempted her to recklessness too.

  ‘Alexander.’ She whispered his first name tentatively, blushing at her daring. A wave of tender longing swept over her.

  ‘Alexander,’ she called out more boldly, as if she could conjure him to her. ‘Soon we’ll be together again!’

  Then, before facing the others, she blew a kiss in the direction of Ravensworth. For after today, Kate knew more than ever, that was where her heart and her destiny lay.

  ***

  THE JARROW LASS is the first in a Trilogy. A CHILD OF JARROW and RETURN TO JARROW continue the story of Rose and her family through the first half of the 20th century.

  A Child of Jarrow

  A compelling and heartrending sequel to the

  bestselling THE JARROW LASS

  Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Chapter 1<
br />
  1902

  By the time they struggled down the hill into Jarrow, one daughter either side of their wheezing mother, the Coronation celebrations were half over.

  ‘You should’ve gone on ahead with our Mary and Jack,’ Rose panted, stopping once again to catch her breath. Her legs were already swelling up in the heat. ‘I could’ve stopped at home.’

  ‘And miss the party? Don’t be daft, Mam!’ Kate exclaimed, squeezing her arm. ‘It’s not every day we get a new king.’

  Rose grunted. ‘We haven’t yet. Lying in some palace with bits of his insides missing, isn’t he? May the saints protect him!’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ Sarah muttered, her broad face perspiring in the sudden summer heat. ‘You sound like Father.’

  ‘Aye,’ Kate laughed, mimicking their stepfather’s gruff speech. ‘”What they want to have a Coronation festival for? The bugger’s not even being crowned! What if he never recovers from his operation? Might as well crown the next one!”’

  Sarah burst out laughing ‘Didn’t stop him ganin’ off at the crack of dawn to start celebratin’, mind, did it?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Rose said sharply, regaining her breath. ‘Show some respect for your father.’

  Kate felt familiar rankling at her mother’s insistence that their cussed stepfather, John McMullen, was their father. He was notorious around Jarrow for his foul-mouthed ranting and drunken brawling, for his defence of all things Irish and contempt for all things womanly.

  Kate remembered little of her own father, William Fawcett, except for fragments of memory that warmed her heart: piano music and lusty singing, a gentle voice telling her tales of the saints. She remembered sitting high up on strong shoulders so she could look out over a vast sea of hats and caps. She could recall a smiling fair face and a large hand wrapped around hers, pulling her down the lane. They were running faster and faster, her father crying out, ‘Race the moon, Kate! See if we can beat it!’

  But consumption had killed him, just as it had Kate’s eldest sister, Margaret. To save the remaining four girls from the workhouse her mother had married the stern, volatile John McMullen and achieved a precarious semi-security for them all. Or not quite all, for their sweet-natured sister Elizabeth had died of the measles soon after young Jack had been born. And there had been dark years of no work and aching hunger when she and Sarah had been forced out to beg on the streets for food. Kate still felt sick at the memory of the terror and humiliation.

  ‘Respect!’ Sarah spat out the word.

  Kate gave her older sister a warning glance. She did not want past miseries to spoil their present enjoyment. Yet she knew Sarah hated their stepfather even more than she did, and for good reason. It was only two years since he had nearly whipped her to death for missing the last tram home from Newcastle. Since then Sarah had worked up river in Hebburn and returned home as seldom as possible. But they had both been given the day off for the Coronation festival and neither of them was going to pass up a rare holiday and the chance of a free tea. She and her sisters loved a party, and Sarah had come home safe in the knowledge that John McMullen would be occupied inside some public house, boozing until sundown or the landlord threw him out.

  Kate was glad the dignitaries of the town had decided it was too late to call off the celebrations at this late hour. The processions, brass bands and entertainment in the park would go ahead as planned, despite the luckless King Edward’s coronation being put off until he had recovered from an appendix operation. But looking down the bank from Simonside, they could see that the processions were over. Bunting flapped irritably in the hot breeze and twists of paper from penny sweets scudded across the cobbles.

  ‘I can still hear the bands playing,’ Kate said eagerly, chivvying her mother forward.

  ‘Where do you think our Jack’s got to?’ Rose fretted.

  ‘He’ll be in the park watching the soldiers. You know he’s daft about uniforms.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sarah laughed. ‘Better find him before he joins up.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Rose gasped. ‘He’s still just a bairn.’

  ‘She’s teasing, Mam,’ Kate reassured, knowing how Rose doted on her shy, serious-minded son. ‘Haway and let’s find the fun.’

  They linked arms and bustled their mother into the dusty town, the sisters singing as they went. It was only after they reached the crowded park and the tea stalls, and spotted Jack’s slim figure and dark head close to the running buglers of the Durham Light Infantry, that Kate remembered Mary. No one had thought to ask about their youngest sister - quick-tempered, petulant, restless Mary. But Mary had always taken care of herself and, at fourteen, took little heed of what anyone said, not even her stepfather. She was the only one of them who showed him no fear and walked a tightrope between his indulgence of her and his quick-fire temper.

  As a small girl, Mary had been brought up by their Aunt Maggie and had always been closer to her than her own mother. John, in his own gruff way, had tried to spoil Mary, make up for Rose’s neglect, but to no avail. Mary seethed with resentment and impatience at them all. She hated living in the old isolated railway cottage to which Rose had moved them a year ago, and chaffed at the restrictions imposed by her parents.

  ‘Jack’s allowed to wander where he likes,’ she would rail. ‘Why can’t I go into town?’

  ‘He comes to no harm round the fields,’ Rose would defend, ‘and he brings home food for the pot.’

  ‘You let our Kate go.’

  ‘She works in the town.’

  ‘It’s not fair!’ Mary always ended up screaming. ‘I hate it here! I wish I still lived with Aunt Maggie!’

  Kate saw how this wounded her mother but if she leapt to Rose’s defence, Mary accused her more shrilly of being the favourite daughter. It was Mary’s beloved Aunt Maggie offering to take her and Jack to the festival that had allowed Mary her freedom today. Kate caught sight of her sister now, arms linked with her young cousin Margaret, who allowed herself to be bossed by Mary. They were gazing at a display of glass birds and china vases that were prizes at an archery stall. Mary turned and Kate waved her over, but her sister ignored the gesture.

  ‘She’ll be off to get Jack to win her one of them birds,’ Sarah commented. ‘Anything fancy and our Mary’s got to have it.’

  ‘Let’s get Mam a cup of tea,’ Kate said brightly. She preferred to be snubbed by Mary than be the focus of her waspish tongue. Let her sister spend the day how she wished, for Kate was determined to enjoy herself too.

  They found Rose’s sister, Maggie, picnicking on the edge of the field. She quickly shared out her paste sandwiches and rock buns and they caught up on each other’s news.

  ‘Danny’s doing canny at the Works.’ Maggie spoke of her husband. ‘Good regular work this summer. How’s John? Still celebratin’ the end of war with the Boers?’

  Rose snorted. ‘He’s not signed the pledge, that’s for certain. I’m just glad the troops are coming home and Jack’s too young to join up. He’s had me that worried these past couple of years with all his talk of soldiering - and running around pretending to shoot at imaginary Boers.’

  ‘Just lads’ games, Mam,’ Kate assured. ‘He’s not even out of short breeks.’

  ‘Aye, let the lad play while he can,’ Maggie agreed. ‘He’ll be out to work and at the beck and call of the bosses soon enough.’

  ‘Is Aunt Lizzie coming over the day?’ Sarah asked.

  They were all fond of Rose’s youngest sister, who lived beyond Gateshead on the grand Ravensworth estate where her husband, Peter, was a gardener.

  Maggie shook her head. ‘Have you not heard? She had a bad fall - ankle’s up like a balloon. Peter sent word a couple of days ago that Lizzie wouldn’t be across. Didn’t Mary tell you? I told her when she came down yesterday.’

  Rose gave an impatient sig
h. ‘No she didn’t. That’s half the reason I’ve bothered to come out the day - the thought of seeing our Lizzie.’

  ‘How will she manage with the bairns?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Aye, it’s a busy tune of year for Uncle Peter an’ all,’ Kate added.

  Maggie nodded. ‘I said to our Mary, “Why don’t you gan over to Ravensworth to help out for a week or two?” But she didn’t seem that bothered.’

  Rose snorted. ‘No, she wouldn’t. Not if it means keeping an eye on Lizzie’s wild boys. She’d rather be at home, even though she complains at the little I tell her to do.’

  ‘Well, who can blame the lass?’ Maggie said in defence of her niece. ‘She’s more delicate than your other lasses - more suited to shop work than skivvying, I’d say.’

  ‘Work-shy, more like,’ Rose said bluntly. ‘She didn’t last with the Simpsons more than a few months. Spent more time looking through Mrs Simpson’s wardrobes than polishin’ them.’

  Kate wished that she could go and help her aunt, for she had loved her one visit to the countryside when her cousin Alfred had been christened. She had glimpsed the towers of Ravensworth Castle glinting mysteriously above the wooded hillside above them and passed one of the lodges with its impressive wrought-iron gateway. Her Uncle Peter had given them rides in a handcart and picked strange furry fruit growing against a warm brick wall that had tasted sweeter than plums.

  But she knew that her mother needed the wages she brought in from working as a general maid in a prosperous part of South Shields. Her stepfather’s wage as a docker was as unsure as the seasons, its size dependent on the number of stops he made to quench his thirst on the long way home up Simonside bank. So Kate kept her secret yearning to herself.