With the girl gone, Kate steeled herself for the ordeal in the bedroom. She lay down on the bed. A cockroach was climbing the damp wall opposite and she made a mental note to clean it with lime and whitewash after her brother had gone. She would fumigate the room and beat the
mattress. She would spring-clean the whole house.
Jack made no move towards the bed. Kate looked up and saw the fear in his face.
‘I - I can’t,’ he said hoarsely. Then he covered his face with his hands and began to weep quietly.
Kate got up and went over, putting her arms around him. ‘Thank the saints,’ she murmured, ‘my old Jack isn’t dead after all.’
He leant into her and let her comfort him.
‘I’m scared, Kate,’ he whispered. ‘Not of fightin’, but leaving home - you and Mam. I can’t think what it’ll be like.’
‘You’ll be canny,’ Kate encouraged. ‘It’s what you always wanted, remember? Ever since you had that wooden gun, playing at the Boer War.’
‘Aye,’ Jack pulled away and smiled bashfully, ‘I’m just being daft. Don’t tell anyone what I said.’
‘Not if you give us the fiver back,’ Kate bargained.
Jack scrabbled in his pocket and pulled it out, handing it over.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I shouldn’t have took it. If you need any more I’ll give it ye.’
Kate shook her head. ‘Just take care of yourself. It’ll do you the world of good to get away from here.’
He looked at her shyly. ‘I didn’t mean to do you harm. I don’t know what to do with lasses, that’s all.’
‘You will in time,’ she assured him.
‘Will you be all right with me da?’ He looked uncertain.
‘I can handle him,’ Kate said stoutly, ‘don’t you worry.’
Briefly he hugged her. ‘I think the world of you, Kate.’
She pushed him away gently. ‘Haway, the bairn’ll be back any minute.’ She walked past him, her heart pounding in relief.
Soon Catherine was back and Kate was helping her mother to rise and make ready for the trip into Newcastle. A brake had been hired to take several families and neighbours into town to see off their sons and husbands. John came back and helped them drink the contents of the ‘grey hen’, but it was Kate who drank longest and deepest. When Catherine gave her a pious look of disgust, Kate abruptly burst into tears.
‘See how much the lass is ganin’ to miss you, bonny lad,’ John chuckled. ‘Soft as clarts, is our Kate.’
Kate avoided their looks, wiped her nose and eyes on her sleeve and hurried outside, pulling Catherine with her. She made the child sit beside her in the carriage and chatted away to the neighbours, so that there was no chance of speaking to Jack.
Her feelings for him were so confused. Part of her loved the shy, vulnerable boy that he still was at heart; the one who had been quietly affectionate and as protective of her as she was of him. Yet a small part of her still feared the flashes of moody, aggressive McMullen that had been fanned by John, the Jack who was goaded into using fists instead of words and thought there was nothing strange in kissing his sister like a lover.
At Newcastle’s cavernous station, all was noise and bustle, with bands and buglers playing the soldiers away and families hugging and kissing their loved ones goodbye. No one thought it strange that Kate should be shaking and crying so uncontrollably.
‘Take good care of yourself,’ Rose told her son tearfully, ‘and come back safe.’
Jack hugged his mother in affection and swung Catherine round.
‘Course I will. I’m a McMullen. We come back like bad pennies,’ Jack teased. ‘Isn’t that what you always used to say?’
‘Aye,’ Rose laughed, ‘ ‘bout most of them.’
She clung to his arm until the last moment, so that he had to push her gently away to get on to the train. Kate stood back.
‘Ta-ra, Kate,’ he said, looking at her uncertainly. ‘I’ll miss you.’
Kate nodded. ‘Ta-ra, Jack.’
Then he was swallowed up by the crush of uniforms beyond the ticket barrier. They watched and waved as he clambered with his kit bag into the crowded carriage. Swirls of steam engulfed the train as it lurched away from the platform. Moments later he was gone.
All the way home, Kate sobbed into a handkerchief borrowed from a neighbour, while Rose sat stoical and dry-eyed and John shared swigs of whisky from another man’s flask.
‘Everyone’s staring,’ Catherine whispered in alarm. ‘No one else is blubbin’ like you, Kate.’
But Kate could not stop. She felt as if some beast roared inside, shaking and wailing and flooding her throat and eyes with endless tears. She knew it was probably the drink, yet she did not care if people disapproved for it cauterised her thoughts.
Rose put a consoling hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, hinny, our Jack’ll be back.’
Kate buried her face in the sodden handkerchief, unable to look at her mother. But which Jack would be back, the affectionate brother or a battle-hardened McMullen? She carried on weeping and letting others comfort her without saying a word. And nobody guessed the real reason for her tears. Nobody knew that she wept for the memory of her young brother who never wanted to be parted from her, but also in relief that John McMullen’s son was gone to war.
Chapter 44
Rose seemed to lose heart after Jack went. News trickled through of fierce fighting along the Somme and the family anxiously scanned the lists of the dead and missing. Even when a letter arrived from Jack the following month to say he was well and enjoying life at the front, Rose refused to believe it. Only Catherine could bring a smile to her drawn face, with snatches of poetry or verse she had learnt at school.
Rose no longer left the house, spending the days confined to her chair, battling with painful swollen legs, incontinence and breathlessness. John dismissed it as ‘women’s troubles’, but Dr Dyer diagnosed dropsy. He called occasionally on the family to see how they were faring and never asked for payment for the ointments he left, even though John was working once more at the hard-pressed yards.
Despite the shortages and the worry over her mother, Kate felt her life was bearable. Mary was speaking to her again and young Alec was often to be found standing on a chair in Kate’s kitchen, mixing spoon clutched in his small hand, brightening her day with his constant chatter.
Mary loaned her the fare for a trip to Hexham that neighbours had organised and so Kate was able to treat Catherine to a day out. Kate kept her guilty five pounds secret, for she dared not use it yet and knew Mary would be the first to tell their stepfather if she did. They picnicked along the river and the children had races. Kate clowned around with Maisie and led them all in a sing-song. On the way home they sang raucously in the evening air,’ “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile!” ‘
Kate was so infected with good-humour and the pleasure of the day that she grabbed Catherine’s hand as they scrambled out of the brake. Lights in the houses were blacked out, but a waxing moon slid in and out of clouds buffeted by a stiff river breeze and cast shadows along the street.
‘Haway, kiddar,’ she cried, ‘we’ll race the moon!’
Before Catherine could protest, Kate was dragging her down the lane, whooping and laughing.
‘Quick, it’s gettin’ away!’
Catherine’s feet left the ground as they flew across the cobbles and a gurgle of excitement caught in her throat. The moon seemed to be keeping pace with them as clouds whipped across its elusive face.
Catherine laughed and shrieked in joy and panic. ‘Stop!’ she giggled. ‘I cannot keep up. Stop, Mam!’
Kate rushed on a few steps, then stopped abruptly. She pulled the girl round, laughing and panting for breath.
‘What did you ca
ll me?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘Nowt.’ Catherine looked away.
‘You called me Mam,’ Kate said breathlessly. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘I said man. Stop, man,’ Catherine muttered in confusion.
Kate swung an arm round her shoulders. ‘Me da used to race the moon with us when we were bairns - it’s one of the few things I remember,’ she said softly.
‘Me grandda?’ Catherine said incredulously.
Kate snorted. ‘Not him! No, me real da. He was a canny man.’ She tried to recall the tall, kind father of her earliest childhood. She could not really remember his face any more, just the impression of a deep gentle voice telling her stories of the saints, and strong warm hands that played the piano and pulled her down the street to race the moon.
‘Kate,’ Catherine whispered. ‘What’s - my da like?’
Kate felt her stomach twist. She had hoped the child would never ask. What good would come of her knowing that her mother had lost her head over a member of the gentry? Catherine would never be able to claim Alexander as a father, for his family would never acknowledge his illegitimate child. They had closed ranks against her. He belonged to a remote world shut off from the likes of them. It was better that her daughter never knew, never hankered after such a world as she had once done. She must make her way in life without Alexander. Kate had come to regret ever putting his name to the birth certificate. She had only done so in the wild hope that he might come back. But he had not and her daring act had been no protection against the bigotry to which they had both been subjected.
‘Oh, hinny, don’t ask,’ Kate sighed.
Catherine’s face twisted in disappointment.
Kate touched the girl’s hair. ‘You’ve his bonny hair and eyes,’ she said wistfully. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’
Catherine seized on this scrap of information. ‘Does he live round here?’
Kate drew back in alarm. The last thing she wanted was the girl going around asking questions, trying to find out about Alexander.
‘No,’ Kate said brusquely, ‘he’s not from round here and he’s never coming back for us.’
‘Never?’ Catherine whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
‘No, he’s dead,’ Kate said rashly. ‘Now, don’t ever ask about him again.’
They marched back up the bank in silence, the intimacy of moments before vanished. Kate’s enjoyment of the day had been shattered by unwelcome thoughts of Alexander and she slept badly, wondering once more whatever had become of him.
***
In the spring of 1917, Jack got unexpected leave. Catherine had been writing to him, long letters that Kate had addressed for her but never added to. In return he had sent his niece postcards of Picardy and elaborate embroidered cards that Kate thought more appropriate to a sweetheart. But she kept her counsel as she still felt guilty at stopping her daughter writing to Stoddie the previous year.
‘Quick, Kate! Our Jack’s coming up the bank!’ Catherine squealed, racing in the back door.
Kate clutched her throat. ‘Never?’
‘Aye, come and see!’ The girl took her by the arm and pulled her into the yard.
A crowd of children had gathered at the end of the lane and were calling excitedly to the soldier tramping up the hill to the New Buildings. Kate recognised Jack’s lanky swagger long before she could see the bashful look in his dark blue eyes.
Neighbours came out to welcome him home and shake his hand, while children ran behind and fired questions.
‘Have you been wounded?’
‘How many Fritzes have you killed, Jack?’
‘Did you see me da in France?’
Jack brushed them off good-naturedly and strode into the yard of Number Ten. Kate bustled ahead nervously. Rose burst into tears at the sight of her son.
‘Eeh, hinny, you’re a sight for sore eyes!’ she cried in delight and threw her arms around him as he stooped to greet her. ‘How long have you got?’
‘A week. Then we join a new battalion.’
‘You should’ve said you were coming,’ Kate gabbled. ‘I’ve nothing in the larder. Give us half an hour and I’ll be back with a ham knuckle - make a broth.’
By the time she had searched Tyne Dock for supplies and trailed home, Jack was holding court in the crowded kitchen. As Kate busied herself preparing a meal, she was surprised to find him so talkative. He had opinions on the war. Generals knew nothing, officers spoke like music-hall toffs and German snipers were fearless. She had never seen him so confident with other adults. He told the neighbours who dropped by to visit that French water gave you the runs and French brandy was nectar.
‘Serves you right for drinkin’ the waater,’ John snorted, pouring them both another whisky that Catherine had been made to fetch.
By the time Mary and Alec came round with their young son, Jack was fulsome about army life and scathing about conscripts who had not joined up voluntarily like he had. Mary took offence and stalked off declaring they would not bother calling again unless he apologised to Alec. Jack laughed at his sister and went out drinking.
Kate was annoyed. Mary would be in a sulk for days and probably take it out on her. She put Rose to bed, but kept Catherine up with her, knowing the men would return soon as liquor was rationed and pubs had to close early. She was still unsure how Jack would be with her once he had had a bellyful of whisky. Her heart began to thump when she heard footsteps outside and loud laughter.
‘Look who we found,’ Jack cried as he stumbled into the house from the unlit street. ‘The Ancient Mariner!’
Kate was astonished to see Davie McDermott striding into the kitchen with his kit bag over his shoulder.
‘Needs a bed for the night,’ Jack announced.
Davie smiled apologetically. ‘My ship’s come in for refit.’
Kate was overjoyed. ‘Haway in,’ she welcomed, ‘course you must stay. You can share the bed with Jack like old times.’
She brewed a pot of tea and cut them thick slices of bread smeared with dripping and questioned Davie about life at sea. There was constant danger from German submarines.
‘U-boat hit us few miles out - but it didn’t explode proper. Managed to see her to port.’
He spoke with quiet understatement, but it struck Kate how hazardous a life he led. Since the start of the war, the newspapers had listed a steady toll of ships sunk in British waters; hundreds of them. She imagined how the McMullen men would make a song and dance about surviving such an attack.
Davie stayed for most of Jack’s short leave while he waited to see how long his ship would be in repair. When he discovered it would be another week before it sailed, he packed his bag to return to Cumbria and see his wife.
Before he went, Kate asked him as casually as possible, ‘Do you ever hear word of Stoddie?’
He glanced at her shyly, his brown eyes considering. ‘Aye - the wife does.’
‘Is - is he all right?’
Davie nodded. ‘Last I heard.’
‘That’s grand,’ she blushed.
He pulled on his thick greying moustache and added, ‘He’s started writing to the wife’s best friend - she’s a widow. My Molly says, if he comes home safe - well, there’s an understanding between them ...’
Kate felt her heart squeeze. Why had he stopped writing to her? If it had not been for wicked Danny MacQuade she might have made more effort to keep in touch too. But he was promised to another now. Davie was trying to tell her as tactfully as possible.
Jack interrupted the conversation. ‘Didn’t I tell you Stoddie had a lass in every port? Our Kate had this daft idea about her and Jock.’
Kate went puce and Davie glanced away to save her embarrassment. She busied herself preparing his bait tin for the journey. When she handed it over, he touched
her shoulder and smiled down. ‘Take care of yourself, lass. You do a grand job.’
She nodded, her eyes stinging at the unaccustomed kindness. Then he was heaving his bag on to his shoulder and swinging out of the door into the weak spring sunshine. She watched him sauntering off, whistling last year’s hit love song, ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World’. For an instant, Kate had a stab of envy for Molly McDermott, who would soon be surprised by Davie’s tuneful whistle and burly figure on her doorstep.
That night Jack left, with some of his McMullen cousins seeing him off from the station. Rose clung to him.
‘I’m that proud of you, lad,’ she croaked. ‘May Our Lady bless you and watch over you always. Take care of yourself, dear Jack!’
Kate felt a sudden wave of pity for her mother; her words sounded so final. Jack kissed Rose quickly, embarrassed at her show of affection.
‘Don’t worry about us, Mam,’ he grinned. ‘I’m the best shot in the regiment.’
In the doorway, he gave Kate a long look. ‘Write to us, Kate, won’t you?’ he pleaded.
She felt a sudden stab of guilt that she had not been more affectionate with her brother during his brief stay. He had done nothing to warrant her coolness towards him. He seemed so much more confident and happy since his time away. She ruffled his hair. ‘Keep your head down,’ she smiled.
He smiled back, reassured. ‘Aye, I will. I’ll come back,’ he promised.
Kate turned away with a heavy heart and consoled her weeping mother. Would this hateful war never be over?
Despite the welcome announcement that the Americans had finally decided to join the war on the side of the Allies, the news was mostly bad. In June, a new threat came when London was bombed by aeroplanes for the first time, killing over a hundred civilians in a fifteen-minute attack. Catherine scoured the skies for days afterwards and redoubled her fervent praying. By August, Allied troops in France were bogged down in the Flanders mud, hemmed in as much by ferocious storms as by the enemy. The battlefields of Ypres and Passchendaele were quagmires of cratered fields and bombed-out villages.
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 80