‘I need a new suit an’ all,’ Jack joined in.
‘Can I have a bicycle?’ Catherine asked in excitement. ‘Please, Da! I could cycle along the cinder tracks and fetch coal on a bicycle.’
‘Aye, you can have a bicycle,’ John said expansively.
‘Eeh, ta!’ The girl squealed in delight and clapped her hands.
‘After the rent’s been paid off,’ Kate added, looking up from the ironing.
John waved a dismissive hand. ‘The lodgers cover the rent.’
‘No they don’t.’ Kate banged down the iron. ‘We’ve three months owing on the rent.’
‘That’s your business,’ John replied. ‘I’m a retired man. I’ve signed the papers, haven’t I, Jack? Said I won’t work at Tyne Dock again. Else they wouldn’t have coughed up the money.’
Kate stared at him. ‘But you will give us some money for the rent, won’t you? You’ve enough to keep the roof over our heads for the rest of the year - and still have plenty to spend.’
John glared back. ‘Don’t think you’re ganin’ to see a penny of this. I’m the one who suffered. I’ll never walk proper again.’
‘Only ‘cos you wouldn’t let us change the bandages and got infected.’ Kate was scathing. ‘Too stubborn to let the doctor see to it. That’s why you’ve got a gammy leg.’
It was the wrong thing to say. John went a belligerent red.
‘Doctors! They kill more folk than they cure. It’s my money and I’ll spend it how I want. The housekeepin’s your concern.’
Kate was speechless. He was being handed a fortune, but she was the only one not going to see a ha’penny of it. She appealed to her mother.
‘Mam, tell him! It’s not fair. I deserve a bit too—’
‘You’ve got more than you deserve,’ John barked, before Rose could speak. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t hoy you out on the street years ago. So don’t you gan tellin’ me how to spend me compensation.’
Kate went puce with indignation. But there was nothing she could do about it.
As summer came, she watched John squander the money on clothes and furniture, drinking and betting. Despite his bad leg he managed trips into town to spend his windfall round the pubs. He and Jack went on all-day drinking binges, so that sometimes Kate was the only one bringing in any wages at all. John’s money was locked in the drawer of Rose’s sewing box and jealously guarded. Occasionally Rose managed to slip Kate a few coins which she thought John would not miss. Kate spent them on beer, sometimes pressing a ha’penny into Catherine’s hand to buy a comic. She saw how the child waited eagerly for John to buy her the promised bicycle, but the weeks went by and it was never mentioned again.
Instead, most of the money went on drink. The men would stagger up the street swearing at children playing late in the twilight and shout obscenities at the neighbours. Late into the night they would sing and curse and fall into argument over whether Britain would go to war with Germany or not. No lodgers would stay more than a night, so Kate gave up trying to keep them. She lay tensely in bed in the back room, praying for the fighting to stop and silence to fall. For only if they passed out with drink did she feel safe.
Even sharing the bed with Catherine did not keep Jack’s unwanted attentions at bay. Fortified with drink, he would sneak into their bedroom and seek her out. She would be dragged out of exhausted sleep by a shake on the shoulder and a pleading whisper. ‘Please, our Kate, give us a bit love. Just let me lie with you.’
‘Gerr-off, Jack!’ she would hiss, pushing him away. ‘You’ll wake the bairn.’
Sometimes it worked and he slunk away. On other nights he cursed her for being heartless and swore he would not stand up for her again. ‘Me da’s right, you’re just a slut,’ he would accuse. Only when Catherine stirred would he stagger from the room.
In the morning he would often look at her with remorse, but neither of them spoke of his night-time visits. If only he could get away from John’s malign influence, Kate thought bleakly, he would not be like this. The longer he stayed, the more she feared for both Jack and herself.
Another fear that kept Kate awake at night was debt. She woke sweating and pulse racing from nightmares about being hauled in front of the county court for not paying the rent. It terrified her in the same way as the stigma of ending up in the workhouse did. She might be sent to prison; then who would look after her mother and Catherine?
When fear grew insurmountable, she would parcel up John’s new clothes for the pawnshop in Bede Street. One Monday morning, when Catherine was moaning about being tired and the long trek to school, Kate snapped.
‘You can stay off then and tak these clothes to the in and out.’
The girl looked at her in shock. ‘I - I cannot. I’m not old enough.’
‘Here’s a penny,’ Kate said grimly. ‘Ask a wife to put them in for you. Gompertz won’t mind, he’s a canny man.’
‘But I don’t want—’
‘Be off with you! Haven’t I got enough on me plate? Don’t come back with anything less than ten bob for that lot.’
Kate steeled herself against the girl’s pleading look and retreated to the wash house to start the mammoth weekly wash. When she emerged again, Catherine was gone. It was nearly dinner time before she returned and Kate was getting anxious, going into the lane and peering down the hill for any sight of her.
In triumph Catherine spilt the pawnbroker’s money on to the table.
‘I got twelve and sixpence!’
‘Good lass,’ Kate grinned in relief. ‘I knew you’d spin a good yarn. Here’s a halfpenny to keep.’
After that Kate often resorted to keeping her daughter off school for the pawnshop trips. She would rather face the truancy officer than the county court judge any day. And Catherine was sensible and independent for her years. As Rose said, ‘She’s got an old head on young shoulders.’ Kate had her running errands all over the place, even to the Alkali or the Penny Whistle with the ‘grey hen’.
‘Gan and fetch some beer, hinny,’ Kate would say without looking round. For at times Catherine’s look could turn mutinous. Her daughter had grown pious since going to the school in Jarrow where they seemed to teach nothing but retribution for the sins of the parents. Kate knew Catherine disapproved of her drinking, but she would not be made to feel guilty. If she only knew the half of it! She had been driven to drink and it was partly Catherine’s fault.
Sometimes, when she caught sight of her daughter staggering back up the hill with the heavy jar, slopping beer on to her boots, Kate felt pangs of remorse. Perhaps she was too hard on the child. What right had she to take out her anger at the world on the lass? But it was a cruel world. She fended for Catherine as best she could like any mother, yet she received none of the love and respect that a mother should. Rose still got that. So Kate smothered her feelings of pity and drank deeply from the grey hen.
In July, to Kate’s delight, Jack’s sailor friends, Stoddie and Davie, returned from a year at sea. John seemed to have forgotten the jealous brawl over Kate that had precipitated their departure the previous summer and was pleased to have new drinking companions.
After an evening of eating and drinking and tales of their trip to South America, John decreed, ‘You can kip here the night. Kate and the lass can give up their bed.’
The seamen ended up staying for the week, spending their pay freely on the household and slipping Kate extra for pickles and tinned fruit and a piece of brisket for the Sunday dinner. She enjoyed having them around the house. Stoddie made her laugh with his jokes and banter, while quiet brawny Davie helped carry in coal and kept the fire stoked.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Kate smiled.
‘Maybe not,’ Davie gave a bashful look of his brown eyes, ‘but it’s done.’
At night they had long sing-songs, with Stoddie playing
on the harmonica. Catherine would watch them cautiously from the doorway and resist Kate’s attempts to get her to perform.
‘Give us one of your poems, Kitty,’ Kate cried. ‘She’s got a grand voice.’
‘Just like her bonny big sister,’ Stoddie winked.
Kate blushed with pleasure. At least with these men she could pretend to be respectable.
‘Haway, lassie, give us a song,’ Stoddie encouraged.
After several nights of coaxing, Catherine was persuaded. She stood in front of the fire and recited part of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The applause was so loud, she grinned and sang ‘Sweet Waters of Tyne’. For twenty minutes she went through her repertoire, playing up to her merry audience, dancing on the hearth, her pretty face lively.
‘You’ve a star there, John,’ Stoddie cried, and stamped his feet in approval.
‘Aye, head’s full of stories and nonsense too,’ John grunted. But he smiled at the girl, pleased.
‘Now it’s Kate’s turn,’ Stoddie grinned. ‘She sings like a wee nightingale.’
Kate felt a pang. No one since Alexander had ever said that to her. She smiled at him and stood up to sing. Soon she was lost in the words and the music. This was the closest she came to true happiness, the room silenced and the music welling up from the depths of her being.
Afterwards, Kate felt bathed in a warm glow of wellbeing and wished such moments could go on for ever, the cares of the day quite forgotten. She noticed how Catherine had crept on to the knee of the gentle Davie, her sleepy head lolling against his broad chest. He seemed to have a way with children, though he had none of his own.
She wished her daughter had chosen Stoddie’s lap, for she was aware that her own feelings for the handsome sailor were growing. If only something could come of it, he might be the man to give Catherine a proper father.
But in the morning they left.
‘Gone back to Cumbria,’ Jack told her. ‘Davie’s got a wife, remember, and Stoddie’s a lass in every port. There’s nowt to keep them here.’
Kate flushed. It struck her that Jack might be jealous of his friends. They were experienced men who had travelled the world and were confident with women. Jack was none of these. He was awkward and shy. He admired the older men, yet seemed to resent the attention they gave to Kate. She was saddled with his protective jealousy as much as John’s vindictiveness. What chance did she have of walking out with Jock Stoddart?
Then events far beyond Jarrow shook them all out of their daily troubles. The threat of war rumbling in Europe suddenly sparked into reality. In early August the newspapers blared the news that Austria had declared war on Serbia, followed days later by Germany waging war on Russia and France.
‘Read it to me, lass,’ John ordered Kate. They were gathered around the table for tea.
‘ “Herbert Asquith, the Prime Minister, was loudly cheered as he gave MPs details of the ul-ti-ma-tum calling on Germany to respect the neutrality of Belgium”,’ Kate read.
‘What’s ultimatum mean?’ Catherine piped up.
Jack answered excitedly, ‘It means if the Hun gan into Belgium we’ll fight ‘em.’
‘Where is Belgium?’ the girl asked. ‘Is it near Shields?’
‘No, Kitty,’ Kate reassured, ‘it’s a long way away.’
‘Aye, but the Hun are just across the German Sea,’ John said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. ‘They could be sailing up the Tyne in hours.’
Catherine’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Shall I gan and look, Da?’
He snorted in amusement. ‘Not yet, lass. We’re not at war the day.’
But by the next, news spread that Germany had marched into Belgium. People went out into the streets as word went round that war had been declared.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Jack cried with glee at his father. ‘Said we’d have a scrap on our hands.’
‘Well, don’t you go thinking of taking the King’s shillin’,’ Rose fretted. ‘You’re needed here.’
Jack made for the door. ‘I’m off out to see what’s happening.’
‘Can I come an’ all?’ Catherine asked, jumping up.
‘Haway then,’ Jack agreed, and she ran out after him.
She came back looking puzzled. ‘They’ve not come yet.’
‘Who haven’t?’ John demanded.
‘The Germans. I went down the Slacks to have a look, but there’s no soldiers.’
John laughed. ‘Course not, you daft lass.’
‘When will it start?’ Catherine persisted.
‘What start?’ John grew impatient at the questioning.
‘The war. Doesn’t look like it’s started to me.’
John just shook his head and laughed.
Kate tried to reassure her. ‘We’ll see nowt different round here. The war’s a world away - ‘cross the English Channel.’
But the long hot days of August did bring changes around the town. Troops marched into Tyne Dock one day and arrested the hapless crew of a ship, the Albert Clement, that had sailed in from the White Sea with timber. Each Saturday, bands played through the town and posters were slapped to baking brick walls, encouraging men to join up. The sight of men in uniform became common as every workplace, sporting club and social group scrambled to form a company of volunteers.
A wave of patriotism swept Tyneside and the mood was optimistic.
‘We’ll have ‘em beat by Christmas,’ Jack crowed.
John shook his head. ‘Na. It’ll gan on a lot longer. It’s never over quick - I know all about war.’
‘Aye, war in the Dark Ages,’ Jack scoffed. ‘But we’ve got the best fleet in the world and modern guns and that.’
John snorted, ‘And the same old generals that don’t know their arse from their elbows.’
The arguments erupted every evening like summer storms. As well as John’s pessimism over the war, he became fixated about German spies.
‘That butcher down Tyne Dock, he’s one,’ he declared.
Kate laughed. ‘Gebhart? He sounds Geordie to me when he opens his gob.’
‘That’s ‘cos he’s a spy,’ John replied with conviction. ‘They’re clever like that.’
Rose was dismissive. ‘He’s been there as long as I can remember. Don’t think he’s even been to Germany.’
‘What would you know?’ John snapped. He grabbed hold of Kate’s arm. ‘I don’t want you buying owt from that foreigner, you hear?’
Kate threw off his hold. ‘Chance would be a fine thing! Can’t even afford the scraps off the floor.’
‘Well, I’m tellin’ ye,’ he growled.
Later, when Kate was helping Rose to bed, they laughed about his suspicions. ‘Daft bugger,’ Rose whispered, ‘doesn’t even trust his own shadow.’
But when the shock news of defeat and retreat from Mons filtered back, there were outbreaks of violence against businesses and people who sounded German. Windows were smashed and shops set on fire by roaming mobs. Men like Gebhart, who had lived in the town for years, were rounded up and taken away, no one knew quite where. But it pleased John.
By September, there was no more talk of the war being over by Christmas, only an increase in recruitment posters. Everyone would have recognised Lord Kitchener had they passed him in the street. Scores of men were volunteering daily; so many that local councils were giving over schools and public buildings for barracks to house the flood of eager recruits. Rose grew increasingly anxious Jack would do something foolhardy, while John took pleasure in baiting his son.
‘He’s not got the stomach for real fightin’. Anyone can scrap on a Saturday night round Jarrow.’
Then, unexpectedly, Stoddie strolled in one day dressed in the uniform of the Tyneside Scottish.
‘What you doing here?’ Kate cried in delight
. ‘And look at you! You suit a uniform.’ She blushed as he pinched her cheek.
‘About to board ship when I ran into a couple of the boys. Had a few bevvies and the next thing we’re doon the recruiting office.’
A place was quickly set for him at the tea table.
‘So why aren’t you in barracks?’ Jack asked, his look envious.
‘They’re overcrowded,’ Stoddie grinned. ‘Giving us two shilling a day extra for bed and board. So thought I’d stay here a week or two.’
‘Course you can,’ Kate said quickly.
Within two days of Stoddie’s appearance, Jack plucked up courage to defy his mother and join up. He had been roaring drunk at the time, according to Stoddie, who was on the same drinking binge. So drunk was Jack that he gave his place of birth as Tyne Dock instead of Jarrow. But he joined the Durham Light Infantry, his father’s old regiment, which provoked unaccustomed praise.
‘Good on you, lad! You’ve got some of your father’s Irish spirit after all. It’ll make a man of ye!’
Rose was only mollified by the thought that he had to live at home for the time being until proper training camps were found. Jack took a new delight in polishing his own boots and strutting around the streets in his new uniform, attracting admiring glances from neighbours who had teased or ignored him for years.
Kate was secretly pleased at the development, for some day soon Jack would have to leave home. In the meantime she enjoyed the mellow late summer days with Stoddie returning from drill and walking her to the end of the lane and back, with the excuse of looking for firewood. Usually Jack tagged along too, like an unwanted stray. Only on Stoddie’s last night did he slip out of the pub early and come back to see Kate.
They stood at the end of the street gazing down on the mass of shipping on the river. The yards were working to capacity and there was talk of bringing in men from the south to fill the jobs left by the thousands who had already joined up.
‘What time do you leave the morrow?’ Kate asked quietly.
‘Train goes at ten.’
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 76