She lost her way in the fog and ended up missing the group of houses huddled at the top of Jarrow bank and found herself plunging down to the lip of the Slake. Kate could tell where she was by the stench of rotting rubbish and polluted effluent lapping on the tide. She cursed her mistake as her shoes stuck in the foul mud and backtracked hastily. She could hear the clang of chains and shivered. It sounded like the swinging of an iron gibbet. Was this where the pitch-smeared body of Jobling had hung to frighten the miners back to work? It was just the noise of a ship’s rigging, she told herself firmly as she fled up the hill.
Finally Kate caught sight of a street corner emerging out of the mist. A glimmer of sunlight stabbed through the grey blanket, throwing a mysterious pearly light on the brickwork and bay windows. This was Simonside Terrace, the grandest of the half-built plot. Kate stopped to get her breath back. How was she to find them? She could not go yelling round these streets where she was not known. What if they weren’t here at all? She panicked. She would have to go back to Chester-le-Street not knowing what had become of them. The thought was too unbearable. She clung to the hope they were somewhere in the New Buildings.
Clutching her now battered box of cakes, she strode down the terrace and turned into Phillipson Street. Peering into the strange hazy light, she could not see a soul, though she could hear children playing somewhere nearby. Their ghostly voices echoed around her. Kate searched the street. She spotted two boys throwing stones at a target on a yard wall.
‘Have you seen our Catherine?’ she demanded, grabbing one by the arm. ‘Kitty McMullen.’
‘Na, missus!’ he cried, alarmed by the sudden appearance of the angry woman.
Kate let go. It was useless. She couldn’t search the whole of East Jarrow in the short time she had left. The sing-song voices of a girls’ skipping game came suddenly from very close. Kate spun round and ran to the end of the lane. It petered out into open land where the rest of the street should have been built but never had. Left took her into William Black Street; right into Lancaster Street. The noise seemed to be coming from the left.
Kate swung into William Black Street. She could just make out a huddle of children beneath a solitary lamppost. They were spinning around in dizzy circles, holding on to the end of a rope that was tied to the post. Kate ran towards them. There was something about one of the girls, the glint of long plaits.
She was almost upon the group when she recognised Catherine’s startled face. The girl was staring up at her as if she had seen a ghost. Kate reached out and seized her in relief.
‘You little bugger! Where’ve you been?’ she shouted, shaking her hard, not wanting to let go. ‘I thought you were dead! Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear?’
‘No,’ Catherine gasped, looking terrified.
‘Where’s Mam?’ Kate barked.
‘In the house.’
‘And where’s that?’ Kate shook her angrily. ‘Show me!’
The other children scarpered in her wake as Kate hauled her daughter down the street. She had been frantic with worry all this time, but now she was filled with an inexplicable fury at the young girl. She had been playing happily with her new friends, indifferent to whether Kate returned or not. She probably hadn’t given her a second thought since the last time she saw her. Damn the child!
Catherine, half running, half dragged, led her to Number Ten. Kate shoved her through the door. The front room with the best furniture and her parents’ bed was empty. Kate stormed into the kitchen. It was cluttered and untidy as if they had lived there for years.
She caught sight of her mother dozing in a chair under the picture of Lord Roberts and threw Catherine forward. The girl stumbled into Rose.
‘What?’ Rose started from her nap. ‘What you doing here?’
‘Aye, it’s me!’ Kate let fly. ‘The one you didn’t bother to tell. I’ve been all over bloody Jarrow looking for you. Why didn’t you send word? I thought you’d gone in the workhouse!’
‘Don’t be so daft,’ Rose retorted. ‘We’ve come up in the world, not down. Yards are working full time, so we took our chance. Maggie told us this was for rent. There’s no need to fuss. You found us, didn’t you?’
‘No thanks to you,’ Kate shouted. ‘You should’ve written, Mam. I nearly went back not knowing ...!’ She burst into tears.
‘You know I cannot write letters,’ Rose blustered. ‘Anyways, I’m too busy.’
‘Mary can,’ Kate sobbed.
‘She would’ve done in time. I wasn’t expecting you. Why you back, any road?’ Rose went on the attack. ‘Not got yourself in trouble again?’
‘No!’ Kate sniffed, feeling doubly hurt. ‘Came back for the bairn’s birthday.’ She looked around, suddenly guilty at the way she had taken her anger out on Catherine. ‘I’m sorry, pet.’ She wiped her face and held out her arms, but Catherine sat rooted to her refuge on the steel fender, watching her warily.
‘I’ve brought you a cake - and a present,’ Kate said in a gentler voice. ‘Do you want to see what I’ve got?’
Catherine nodded and sidled over, curiosity quickly roused. She took the paper bag Kate offered her and ripped it open. The ribbon fell to the floor. Catherine bent and grabbed it, running the shiny material through her fingers.
‘What you go spending money on posh ribbon for?’ Rose complained. ‘Cotton rags will do.’
‘Do you like it?’ Kate ignored her mother.
‘Aye,’ Catherine smiled. ‘Ta, our Kate.’
‘Let me tie it in your hair,’ Kate offered. The girl held it out. In defiance of her mother, Kate untied the tight plaits that bound her hair and combed it free with her fingers. Then she slid the ribbon under the girl’s hair and gathered it in a large bow at the back.
‘That looks bonny,’ Kate said. But as soon as she had finished, Catherine ran to Rose and stood between her knees as if she sensed they were fighting over her. Kate felt a spasm of jealousy. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t bothered to come home. She was better off staying in Chester-le-Street where at least the Slaters treated her like family and no one gave her pitying glances in the street or whispered behind her back as she passed.
She wouldn’t come back so eagerly again. Kate got off her knees and straightened out her lavender skirt. Before she could make her escape, Mary appeared.
‘Are you ready, Kitty?’ she called, then saw Kate and gasped. ‘What a fright you gave me! Didn’t expect to see you so soon.’
‘No,’ Kate said, ‘you weren’t easy to find.’ She watched Catherine skip across to her aunt and hold out a hand. ‘Where you ganin’ with the bairn?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Promised her a trip to the pictures,’ Mary preened. ‘There’s a Charlie Chaplin on at the Crown.’
Kate felt suddenly defeated. How could a piece of ribbon compete with a matinee show at a picture palace? She should give up trying to win Catherine’s affection. She would never be more than the big sister who provided; the one who was good for a laugh when she wasn’t arguing, or drinking, or absent. She would be happier if she gave up the battle, went back to the Slaters and got on with life there. It was not such a bad one.
Kate watched Mary fuss over Catherine’s appearance and adjust the ribbon in her hair.
‘Just as well you’ve come home,’ Mary said, clutching her niece’s hand. ‘Isn’t it, Mam?’
‘Why’s that?’ Kate asked dully.
‘Haven’t you told her, Mam?’
‘Not had a chance,’ Rose wheezed. ‘Came in here like a bull in a china shop.’
Kate felt nervous at the look of glee on Mary’s face. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Father wants you back.’ Mary was blunt. ‘Mam can’t manage the house any more - not with Kitty an’ all. It’s up to you.’
Kate stared at her. ‘Me?’
‘Aye, it’s true, isn’t it, Mam?’
‘But I’ve got a canny job.’ Kate was indignant. ‘Why can’t you help around here more?’
Mary was dismissive. ‘I’m working too - and I’m courting. I’ll be married soon with a place of me own.’
‘Has Alec asked you to wed?’
‘Not yet,’ Mary said, colouring, ‘but he will. Anyways, it’s you that has to keep house; Father said so. Look at Mam,’ Mary pointed, ‘she can hardly walk across the room, let alone to the shops.’
Kate looked at her mother in dismay. Her face was puffy with fatigue, her breathing laboured and she wasn’t even standing up. It struck Kate that she hadn’t seen her mother move from the chair at all. Glancing about, she could see now that the room looked messy and neglected. Nothing was polished or scrubbed and clothes were draped over chairs unironed. It was Catherine’s birthday, but there was no tea spread out; no table laid.
Rose’s dark-ringed eyes looked sad. ‘I’ve tried me best, hinny, but the bairn’s worn me out. You have to come home and help us.’
Kate saw the defeat on her mother’s face and realised it was true. For six years Rose had looked after the lively Catherine, as well as the men, and it had left her exhausted. Kate had been so absorbed in her own worries that she had not thought how the past hard years had taken their toll on her mother’s failing health.
But coming home would mean saying goodbye to the Slaters and her small degree of independence. Gone would be the little freedoms of chatting to the shop customers and occasional visits from her friend Suky on market day. She would be at the beck and call of her sick mother and domineering stepfather. Kate fought the panic rising in her chest.
Then suddenly Catherine piped up. ‘Please come back, our Kate. Mam’s legs don’t work any more. You can put me hair in ringlets and walk with me to school.’
Kate felt her eyes smart. It was the first time Catherine had shown that she wanted her and it made her heart swell. She stepped over and put a hand on her daughter’s head.
‘That would be canny.’ Kate smiled at the child. She turned to her mother. ‘Course I’ll come back and give a hand, Mam.’
Rose nodded, but there was no smile for her. Her mother seemed past caring.
‘That’s settled then,’ Mary said brusquely, yanking the girl away from Kate’s touch. ‘Haway, Kitty, or we’ll be late for the film.’
Catherine ran to the door without a backward glance. ‘Ta-ra, Mam,’ she called from the door.
‘Ta-ra, pet—’ Kate began.
‘Ta-ra, Kate,’ the girl added as an afterthought.
Kate felt a stab of disappointment. The closeness she had felt a moment before had not been shared by the child. Soon she would see her daughter every day, live together cheek by jowl, yet have to keep up this pretence of being her sister. How could she do it? How long would they all have to live this lie?
Chapter 37
1913
Raking out the fire and carrying the ashes to the midden, Kate stopped to look at the pale dawn light bleeding into the half-dark sky. Midsummer again. She had been home a year, yet it seemed like ten. She stretched her stiff limbs, feeling the familiar ache in her back that throbbed even before she filled the hod with coal and humped it back into the kitchen.
Her mind ran ahead to the long day’s tasks. Slops to empty from the bucket by her parents’ bed, Jack to turf off the settle, breakfast to make, Catherine to get ready for school, her mother to wash and dress, a midday meal to prepare and leave on the stove. All this before traipsing into Tyne Dock to her cleaning job at the Penny Whistle. Kate felt tired just thinking of it.
Later there would be tea to make, floors to scrub, more coal to fetch, dishes to wash and baking to be done for the following day. Rose to help to bed. Then maybe a sit-down with a piece of mending, her swollen feet plunged in a pail of cold water. Or maybe a small jug of beer to quench the thirst, a tot of whisky to numb the aching. If she took in a bit of extra washing for the Simpsons in Phillipson Street. ..
At least she had resisted taking in lodgers, Kate thought with pride. Her daughter had not had to share with rough seamen or transient workers as Kate had had to do after her father had died. She remembered her childish fear of brawny men smelling of fish and talking in strange accents taking over their kitchen. She still recalled her mother falling to her knees sobbing when it was discovered the lodgers had stolen the housekeeping and the precious bone-handled cutlery and disappeared back to sea.
Sometimes Jack would bring home men he had been working with down the docks, men away from home. Kate would be expected to feed them too, but she did not mind, for some of them brought bottles of beer to wash down their meal and often they would end up with a song or two, calling on Kate to sing. How careful she had to be. She had to gauge her stepfather’s mood, keep a careful balance between pleasing him with her singing and provoking his wrath if any of the men showed a spark of interest in her. For she would always get the blame.
‘Don’t you give him the eye,’ John shouted drunkenly when one of Jack’s friends pinched her cheek. He was a cheerful Scot called Jock Stoddart and Kate found him good company. He and his quiet friend, Davie McDermott, were stokers off a ship Jack had been unloading. Davie was married to Stoddie’s sister and they had come three nights running, spending their pay freely on whisky and beer.
‘Such bonny eyes,’ Stoddie teased, not realising the trouble he caused.
‘Whore’s eyes!’ John snapped, staggering out of his chair and lunging for Kate. She tried to dodge out of his way, but the beer had dulled her movements and his fist caught her on the side of the head.
She toppled backwards off her stool and landed in an undignified heap on the floor, head spinning. The men looked on in astonishment, Stoddie half rising to help her.
‘Leave the slut alone!’ John roared, swinging a punch wildly at the Scotsman.
He fended it off easily. ‘Sit down, man. I meant nothing by it,’ Stoddie said calmly.
But Jack chose that moment to pick a fight with his father.
‘You leave the lass alone,’ he snarled, rising from the settle and knocking Catherine awake as he lurched round the table. The child had curled up and gone to sleep there without Kate noticing.
‘Watch the bairn,’ she slurred, nursing her thumping head.
‘Come on then, nancy-boy,’ John taunted, raising his gnarled fists at his son, ‘let’s see you fight for the bitch. She’s the only lass you’ll get. Not even the whores in Holborn look twice at you!’
Jack threw himself at his father, enraged by his words. Kate rolled out of the way as the two of them went at each other with fists and boots flying. Stoddie and Davie tried to intervene, but there was little room among the press of furniture and they ended up getting thumped in the melée too.
Catherine screamed and Kate struggled to her knees, flinging her arms out to protect her. The girl buried her head in Kate’s shoulder, squeezing her eyes tight shut.
‘It’s all right, hinny,’ Kate tried to calm her. But Catherine refused to show her face, even after the fight died down.
John had a bloody nose, Jack a swollen eye. The seamen departed with a wink at Kate and a ruffle of Catherine’s hair.
‘Sorry, lassie,’ Stoddie said, and was gone.
They sailed the next day and Kate had not seen them since. But John made her life hell for weeks afterwards, berating her about her whorish behaviour and threatening her with his belt if she so much as looked at another man.
When in drink she never knew if he would lash her with his foul-mouthed tongue or make lewd gestures and suggestions. Sometimes he would lunge at her breasts and squeeze them with a crude laugh. ‘No milk left for me, eh?’
Once, when she had dozed off on the settle waiting for him to come back from the pub, she was woken by h
is hand thrust up her skirt. She had cried out in shock and scrambled beyond his reach. He had taken offence and started to smash the pictures off the wall with the fire poker. In desperation Kate had run to the bedroom and woken Catherine in the bed they shared.
‘Get up, hinny,’ she hissed, ‘your da needs puttin’ to bed. You can stop him raging, I know you can. Tell him one of your poems. Quick, Kitty.’
The sleepy girl had got out of bed, befuddled but alert to Kate’s fear. She had crept into the kitchen and up to the ranting drunkard, pulling on his arm.
‘Lavender’s blue, dilly-dilly, lavender’s green, When you are king, dilly-dilly, I shall be queen.’
She sang it over and over until the words calmed him and the fury drained away. Between them, they managed to coax John to bed. Afterwards, when all was quiet, Kate snuggled close to Catherine, wrapping her in her arms. After the violence, it felt so good to touch her and draw comfort from her warm young body.
‘Ta, pet,’ she murmured, ‘you’re me little helper.’
But Catherine had turned her face away and wriggled out of her hold.
‘No I’m not,’ she said. And Kate was left with the feeling that her daughter blamed her for what had just happened. She felt diminished and overwhelmingly alone.
Certainly, Rose seemed to think all the wrangling at Number Ten was her fault.
‘Jack and his da never used to fight like this before you came home,’ she told her once, when Kate had complained that John wouldn’t leave her alone.
Kate did not believe her, but she saw it was fruitless to argue. Rose had given up caring about anything this past year. She seemed content to play the invalid and let Kate do all the work. Kate was sure her mother could do more for herself than she did, but just didn’t want to. She also knew from the sharp words through the bedroom wall that Rose used her ill health to keep John at bay in bed.
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 72