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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Aye, they’re courtin’,’ she answered.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘The Christmas party.’ Amelia stood up and linked arms with the bashful Peter.

  Catherine gaped at them as they followed the other couple. She sat down quickly, her legs feeling wobbly. Why had Lily never said anything at church? Two months of courting Tommy Gallon and she never knew.

  Catherine felt sick and dizzy as shock gave way to sharp jealousy. She should’ve been told. Tommy had all but been going out with her! Even the quiet Peter had chosen Amelia rather than her. She felt suddenly alone and humiliated. She sat, gripping her hands in her lap, trying not to cry, swallowing tears.

  When the dance finished and the girls came back, Catherine forced herself to make light of it.

  ‘You’re a dark horse, not telling me about Tommy,’ she laughed.

  ‘He walked me home after the Christmas party,’ Lily smiled breathlessly. ‘He’s really canny.’

  ‘You’re not serious about him, though?’ Catherine couldn’t help asking.

  Lily gave her a look. ‘Course I am. He’s good company,’ she dropped her voice, ‘and a good kisser!’

  Her friends smothered their laughter. Catherine felt faint. Heat prickled her skin.

  ‘But - but he’s just a pitman,’ she burst out.

  Lily and Amelia stopped and stared at her. She had no idea why she’d said such a thing, but instead of retracting it, Catherine blustered on.

  ‘Well, what’s the future ganin’ to be like as a pitman’s wife? A life of drudgery, that’s what. All that washing and getting up all hours of the night to see them fed and off to work. I know what I’m talking about - me Aunt Sarah’s married to one and she’s four sons down the pit an’ all. It’s never-ending - she’s old before her time.’

  Lily’s expression turned from surprise to anger.

  ‘Don’t you preach at me, Kitty. What gives you the right to look down your nose at me and Tommy? He’s a grand lad and it doesn’t bother me two pins that he works down the pit. It’s hard, honest graft. He’s not sitting at home with his feet up, painting little bits of cushion covers - he’s doing some’at useful. Maybe it’s dirty and dangerous, but I love him all the more for doing it.’

  ‘Well, more fool you,’ Catherine said, wounded by Lily’s words. ‘You’ll not catch me weddin’ a pit lad.’

  ‘Then you’ll die an old maid, Kitty,’ Lily said in scorn. ‘The sort of lad you’re lookin’ for doesn’t exist for lasses like us.’

  ‘He does for me,’ Catherine declared.

  Amelia came to Lily’s defence. ‘Don’t speak to Lily like that. Your nose is stuck that high in the air it’s got ice on it!’

  By now, the other girls were aware of the growing argument. Silence was falling around them. Lily turned her back on Catherine, her cheeks puce with indignation, eyes watery with tears. The others looked on, wondering what had been said. Catherine could not bear their accusing stares. She got to her feet, shaking uncontrollably. It was like being a child again. Her against the rest, excluded from the party.

  Without another word, she grabbed her jacket and fled from the room. Falling into the street, she made her way blindly through the dark lanes of Tyne Dock. Hot tears streamed down her face. Why had she turned on Lily and said such hurtful things? She had only meant to warn her about life as a pitman’s wife, not to bad-mouth Tommy. Or had she? Wasn’t she so consumed with jealousy at Tommy choosing Lily instead of waiting for her that she’d lashed out at her closest friend? She had wanted to hurt her. She was despicable. No wonder no one wanted her for a friend. And that’s all she ever really wanted - to have friends, to belong. Why did she have to be different?

  Because you’re a bastard on the inside and the out. The hateful words, spoken long ago by an angry neighbour, rang in her head. She was cursed from birth never to be one of the crowd. She would always be different, always set apart.

  In her mind, she was a small girl again, climbing the back stairs to Bella’s house, dressed in a clean pinny and her hair in ribbons. She could hear the shrieks of the other children in the middle of a party game. Her friends had forgotten to call for her, but she wasn’t too late, whatever Kate said.

  Catherine knocked on the door, hopping with excitement. No one came. She knocked louder. Finally the door opened. Bella stood there smiling, the others crowding behind, breathless from blindman’s buff.

  ‘Sorry I’m late—’

  ‘You can’t come in,’ Bella cut her off. ‘You’re not invited.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Mam says you’ve got no da.’

  The door slammed shut. She could hear the laughter behind it. Pain ripped through her like a sharp blade . . .

  Catherine, sobbing at the memory, stumbled down the hill, away from the youth club, oblivious to the cries of a tram driver and the clanging bell as it narrowly missed her. Suddenly she found herself in complete darkness. She groped around and felt a cold, damp, slimy wall. Where was she? Where had the streetlights gone? Panic choked her. Spinning around her, the blackness seemed complete. She was entombed somewhere that stank of urine and mould. Above her was a strange rumble as if the earth was shaking. This was Hell. No warm fires and flames of light for her, just cold, stinking nothingness.

  Catherine flattened herself against the wall to stop herself falling. She couldn’t breathe. Out of the dark, shadows loomed and tried to sweep her away. Her head swam and her temples throbbed with pressure as if her brain was trying to burst its cage. All at once, she felt a gushing from her nose. She tasted blood in her mouth. Putting up her hands to stop the flood, she felt blood pouring through her fingers.

  She cried out in horror. There was a sudden flash of light as a tram roared towards her. It lit the cavernous tunnel. Catherine saw she was under the railway arches of Tyne Dock. She half registered the thought, then the light went and the world closed in on her again as she lost consciousness and slipped down the slimy wall into oblivion.

  Chapter 6

  Catherine could hear hushed voices beyond the bedroom door.

  ‘... but so much - she’s never bled like that before, Dr Dyer.’

  ‘She’s very weak. Has she been eating properly, Kate?’

  A pause, then, ‘She’s got the appetite of a flea. Lasses these days just want to look slim in their short dresses.’

  ‘This has happened before, hasn’t it?’ Dr Dyer asked.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Not the bleeding, but collapse. At the end of the war, remember? She’d be about thirteen. Couldn’t walk for weeks, yet I could find nothing wrong with her legs. Total exhaustion.’

  ‘Not wanting to gan back to school, more like,’ Kate snorted. ‘Lay like a princess while I fed her fancy food to try and get her spark back.’

  The doctor said kindly, ‘That’s what you’ll have to do now, Kate. She’s very run-down - and the nosebleed is worrying. You must give her plenty of liver to stop her becoming anaemic. Good food and rest for the girl.’

  Kate sighed. ‘It must be some’at that made her ill. She’s a strong lass; it’s not natural.’

  ‘She’ll have to stop her work for a while.’

  ‘Aye, maybes it was the paints.’ Kate seized on the idea. ‘I heard that lead in paint can be harmful - poison you. Me mother used to work in the puddling mills and lasses died of lead poisoning in there.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Dr Dyer mused, ‘though I see no signs of poisoning - no vomiting. But just to be sure, keep them packed away until she’s recovered.’ The outside door opened. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Kate said. ‘You’ve been that good to us. I daren’t think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t found her. ..’ Kate’s voice faltered.

  ‘I’m glad I did too. Don’t upset yourse
lf. As you say, she’s a strong girl. Good day, Kate.’

  Catherine closed her eyes, the words washing over her. She felt detached, floating, as if in a dream. Yet her body felt as heavy as iron, pinning her to the bed. She was as weak as a kitten, too tired to move an inch. It was wonderful just lying in the feather bed, not having to do anything, not having to think. She was in a world of warm, scratchy blankets, the smell of camphor, the sound of Kate stoking up the kitchen fire. The distant cry of the rag-and-bone man down the lane was the last sound she remembered before surrendering to sleep.

  ***

  In the days that followed, memory of that terrible evening washed back into Catherine’s mind. Dr Dyer had been passing in his car and spotted her slumped on the pavement. The time between being picked off the street and put to bed was a blank, but there had been shouting and hot tea, crying and stanching of blood. She was back in Kate’s bed, and Davie was sharing the parlour with a filthy-tempered John.

  Time had stopped. Days were no different to nights, as she slept and woke and slept again. Kate would spoon soup and tea into her like a baby, cool her face with a damp cloth and croon quietly. Catherine lapped it up gratefully, knowing the tenderness and the sanctuary of the big bed would not last.

  After a week, the bickering beyond the bedroom door grew.

  ‘It’s time you got your lazy backside off to sea,’ John ranted at Davie. ‘And when’s me tea? The lazy bitch in there isn’t the only one needs feedin’.’

  ‘I can’t be everywhere at once,’ Kate snapped. ‘You’ll not die of starvation in the next five minutes.’

  ‘She’s puttin’ it on,’ John blustered. ‘One nosebleed and she’s in bed a week. You’re too soft by half.’

  ‘Aye,’ Davie agreed, ‘she’s running you ragged.’

  ‘You all are!’ Kate cried. ‘It wouldn’t harm the pair of you to lift a finger for once and serve out the tea.’

  ‘And it wouldn’t, harm the lass to get out of bed and come to the table,’ Davie muttered.

  ‘Since when have you been a doctor?’ Kate demanded.

  ‘Doctors!’ John was contemptuous. ‘Kill more than they cure. That Scotch doctor’ll have us penniless and in the workhouse with the cost of all this fancy food for Kitty.’

  ‘How would you know? You don’t pay a ha’penny towards it - neither of you do!’

  ‘I will as soon as trade picks up,’ Davie said defensively.

  ‘Then get yoursel’ down the docks - you’ll not find a ship, sitting with your feet up here all day long.’

  ‘If that’s what you want—’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I want!’

  ‘Well, I’d rather be at sea than stop around here - put out me wife’s bed and having to listen to him rant on all day long. A hurricane would be better!’

  Catherine heard the slamming of the back door and Kate crashing about in the kitchen, banging things down on the table.

  ‘Happy now?’ she accused John.

  He snorted, ‘It’s you and the lass are driving him out, not me. I’d tak the belt to you if you were my missus.’

  ‘Aye, that’s always your answer, isn’t it?’ Kate said bitterly. ‘Why do you think I married Davie?’

  ‘ ‘Cos he’s too weak to stand up to ye.’

  ‘No, ‘cos he’s man enough to keep his belt where it belongs - in his breeks.’

  Catherine waited for the sound of the poker banging on the fender or crockery flying. But her grandfather’s swearing petered out and the silence that followed was ominous. With a feeling of dread, she was sure that the anger and bitterness would turn its attention on her next.

  A week later, Davie was bound for the Cape and Kate’s patience had run out. She turfed Catherine out of bed and spring-cleaned the bedroom. Kate’s way of coping with unhappiness was to work twice as hard, pushing herself physically so she had no time to dwell.

  ‘Work it out, lass,’ she ordered, when Catherine sat listlessly watching her. ‘No point sitting around feeling sorry for yoursel’. You can start by helping me beat the mattress.’

  ‘I’m too tired,’ Catherine complained.

  ‘You need a bit fresh air in your lungs, that’s all. We’ll get the mattress out in the yard.’

  Catherine struggled to help her mother, while John sat by the fire ignoring the activity. She coughed as dust and feathers flew up around them, wary of Kate’s grim look.

  The next day, Kate roused her from sleep. ‘I’ve got work decoratin’ down Jarrow. You’ll have to get your grandda’s breakfast. There’s washing to fetch from Simpsons’ in Oswald Street and a parcel to tak down to Gompertz’s - Davie’s suit. Make sure you get a good price for it.’

  ‘Not the in-and-out!’ Catherine protested. She had never overcome the humiliation of being sent to the pawnshop, with the neighbours watching from their doorsteps.

  ‘How else are we ganin’ to eat this week?’ Kate was sharp. ‘I’ll be back at dinner time.’ Then she was gone.

  Catherine sat for a long time feeling numb and alone. Was this to be her life, domestic drudgery and trips to the pawnshop? But what else was she fit for? She had turned her back on school at thirteen, with no pieces of paper to prove she knew anything. Her head might be full of dreams and stories, but she didn’t have the education to make sense of them on paper. Since a child, she had tried to write down snatches of stories that flashed through her mind, but they never came out right. She blushed to think of the long story she had once sent into the local newspaper that had been returned the very next day, rejected and obviously unread. How that had rankled - still did.

  She could start her painting again. But maybe it was ruining her health. It might sound tragically romantic to be an artist dying young, but she wanted to live. Catherine was filled with a sudden yearning for life, to experience a world beyond the New Buildings, even beyond Jarrow and Shields. Wasn’t she the daughter of a gentleman?

  Catherine forced herself to get up and dressed in her best. She would show them all. Today, she would go and find herself a job away from William Black Street. Simpsons’ washing would have to wait, and as for the pawnshop - Davie’s suit was Kate’s affair; she could take it herself.

  When Catherine reappeared that evening, Kate’s worry turned quickly to fury.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over for you - you never went to Simpsons’ -and Davie’s suit’s still on the table. Where the devil have you been?’

  ‘Signed up with Mrs Bridge’s.’ Catherine faced her triumphantly.

  ‘What you mean, Mrs Bridge’s?’

  ‘The wife that runs that agency,’ Catherine said proudly.

  ‘For domestics?’

  ‘Not just them - all kinds of work. She thinks I’d make a good lady’s companion.’

  John bellowed with laughter. ‘Hark at her!’

  Kate just gawped at her, speechless.

  ‘It’s true,’ Catherine insisted. ‘There’s a lady up Cleadon village wants one. Mrs Bridge thinks I’m just right for the job. I’m to gan up there tomorra and be interviewed.’

  ‘Interviewed!’ crowed John. ‘Our Kitty, a lady’s companion? You bugger!’

  Kate found her voice. ‘Don’t talk daft. You’ll be a maid of all work - a skivvy. I can’t believe you’d fall for that. You’re not ganin’.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You’re not fit enough. It’ll finish you.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m fit enough to skivvy for you and run up and down to the pawnshop?’

  ‘Don’t give me your lip—’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get no more of me lip. I’m not stoppin’ round here any longer. If the wife up Cleadon’ll have us, I’m off to live up there. Thought you’d be pleased for me.’

  ‘Pleased that you’re ganin’ into place?’ Kate was scornful.
<
br />   ‘Well, what else can I do?’ Catherine protested.

  ‘Some’at you’re more suited to, like shop work. You’ve a head for figures and business.’

  ‘You just want me around here to do your chores for you.’

  ‘And what about me?’ John joined in. ‘Who’s ganin’ to look after me while Kate’s out workin’?’

  ‘You’ll manage.’ Catherine eyed him boldly.

  ‘Don’t go.’ Kate was suddenly pleading. ‘Don’t leave me with . ..’

  Catherine knew from her look that her mother dreaded being left alone with John. But why should she pass up this opportunity of a better life? The fear of being stuck there for ever was stronger than her guilt at leaving Kate to put up with John alone. And some day soon, Davie would be back.

  ‘There’s Davie, remember. He’ll be pleased to find me gone.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’ve taken against him so,’ Kate snapped. ‘He’s done nothing to deserve it.’

  Catherine knew she could never get her mother to understand that it wasn’t so much dislike of Davie, as a deep longing for her real father, that made her act as she did.

  ‘Me mind’s made up.’ Catherine stood her ground. ‘I’m ganin’ up Cleadon the morra.’

  Kate hung her head in defeat, while John spat into the fire and cursed all women.

  A week later, Catherine had secured the position at Oakside Manor, bought her uniform with a loan from the Church, and packed a small bag of possessions. Her mother walked her down to the tram stand.

  ‘I still don’t see what you need a uniform for if you’re a lady’s companion.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just for neatness,’ Catherine said excitedly. ‘You should see the size of the house - five bedrooms and a bathroom as big as our kitchen and two inside privies! And the gardens - you can’t see the road for the trees, like a secret world. And greenhouses. Mrs Halliday says they grow peaches. Just think of it, I’ll be eatin’ fresh peaches this summer.’

  Kate gasped and stopped. Catherine saw her hands fly to her mouth.