‘But you have a future here! In time, you could become an excellent lady’s maid.’
Catherine bit back the retort that she would never be anyone’s servant ever again. She was the daughter of a gentleman. Nothing Mrs Halliday said could dissuade her. When she packed her small bag and left by the servants’ entrance, she glanced back at the solid stone mansion surrounded by the fresh green of early summer.
‘I’m ganin’ to live in a house like this one day,’ she suddenly determined. ‘And I’ll not gan sneakin’ in the back way. I’ll walk right up the front steps, ‘cos it’ll be mine!’
‘Who you talkin’ to, Kitty?’ Sam asked, looking up from his hoeing.
She swung round, startled to think she had been overheard.
‘Just mesel’,’ she laughed, self-consciously.
He shook his head as if she were mad. Perhaps she was, for daring to think so far above her station. But she hungered for it. Deep down, the ambition to live this other life she knew she was born to smouldered like a new fire.
‘Take care of yoursel’, lass.’ Sam waved her away.
She shouted farewell, then left through the gates without a backward glance.
Chapter 8
For the first few weeks, Catherine doubted whether she should have taken the job at the workhouse. It was hot and noisy in the laundry during the summer months, and after nine hours her head pounded and eyes ached. The laundry workers were either shy or sullen while her fellow officers viewed her with suspicion.
‘How come a lass like her gets the checking to do?’ Hettie, a bullish woman in her thirties, asked loudly in the officers’ mess where they ate. ‘She’s just turned nineteen. I’ve been working here sixteen years and I’m still a warder. And it’s not as if she’s got any education.’
Catherine carried on eating, forcing herself to swallow each mouthful. She and Hettie were sharing a small room together, and the waspish woman had made it plain she resented the arrangement.
‘Mind you, it’s like living with Saint Catherine - crucifix and holy pictures all over the walls,’ Hettie continued, making the others laugh. ‘Wearing out the lino with all that kneeling.’
Catherine smiled, as if she found it amusing too. ‘Just thanking Our Lady for giving me such a canny room-mate.’
This caused a few sniggers and Hettie to frown. Catherine knew by the hateful look she gave her that she was foolish to spark back, but she could not help it. She had done nothing to offend the woman and she would not be blamed for her youthfulness or willingness to work hard.
She wished she could discuss it with Lily, but she hardly got a chance to talk with her old friend. They had smiled at each other on the first day and Lily had generously whispered good luck, showing no envy at Catherine’s superior position. Catherine had felt a flood of relief, soon followed by frustration at their lack of contact. She was staff, while Lily was rank and file. Lily was on ironing duties - a step above the inmates in the washhouse - and spent all her time behind the hot pipes and whirring leather belts of the ironing benches. At midday, Lily ate with the other paid workers and at five o’clock she went home.
She and Catherine had only snatched conversations when handing over piles of sheets ready to return to the hospital.
‘Hettie Brown’s jealous of her own shadow,’ Lily told her. ‘Steer clear.’
‘How can I when we share a titchy room together?’
‘Well, don’t cross her,’ Lily warned. ‘Once she gets her claws into you, she’ll make your life a misery. I’ve seen her make the inmates cry often enough - she used to be on ironing till Matron moved her to the hospital. Talk of the devil.’
Matron Hatch appeared at the door and Lily hurried away, leaving Catherine to check the stock of fresh ironing.
Awkward with the older women who made up the majority of the workhouse staff, Catherine threw herself all the more determinedly into her new job. After a full day’s work in the laundry, she often spent half the evening on the infirm wards with the elderly. It reminded her of attending to her bed-bound Grandma Rose as a child, and it did not frighten her when the old people babbled in confusion or wandered about looking for their front doors and people long dead.
One Saturday, Matron told her, ‘We need someone to accompany the women to the cottages this afternoon, Miss McMullen. I’d like you to go.’
Catherine nodded in agreement, wondering what cottages.
‘You must supervise them and make sure there is no unseemly behaviour. They assemble at the main gate at two o’clock. Miss Brown will be on duty with you.’
Catherine’s heart sank. The unexpected outing would no doubt be ruined in Hettie’s company. Still, she was intrigued to discover where they were going, and perhaps, away from the workhouse, she could win Hettie’s friendship.
The women who gathered in the sunshine, in their drab brown uniforms and woollen stockings, looked young. Some were smiling and joking, an air of expectancy about them.
‘Keep quiet, or you’ll be left behind,’ Hettie commanded, and silence quickly followed.
She looked at Catherine in satisfaction and winked. Encouraged by her sudden friendliness, Catherine smiled back. An old army ambulance chugged up to the gates and Hettie shooed the women on to the makeshift bus.
‘We’ll sit at the front,’ she told Catherine and arranged herself neatly into the seat close to the driver.
‘How far is it?’ Catherine asked.
‘Half an hour or so,’ Hettie said, then turned away and spent most of the journey chatting to the driver. The sixteen women behind spoke occasionally in whispers, drawing the censure of Warder Brown. By now, Catherine did not dare ask Hettie what the trip was for, in case she ridiculed her in front of the others.
The bus took them out of the town and followed the coast south. Catherine was so mesmerised by the swaying cornfields and the distant hazy cliffs that it came as a surprise when the bus swung up a rough road and drew to a halt. About them were long, one-storey huts arranged around a bare courtyard, where hens pecked in the dust. Beyond, she glimpsed a vegetable patch.
‘You’ve one hour,’ Hettie called out. ‘Anyone acting daft gans straight back on the bus.’ The women got up quickly, their excitement palpable. ‘I’ll lead them in,’ Hettie said to Catherine, ‘you follow at the back and make sure no one scarpers.’
One woman, whom Catherine recognised from the laundry, raised her thick eyebrows in the only hint of defiance. ‘Scarper where?’ she muttered.
The driver settled to read his newspaper while Hettie marched her wards into a long, low hall. At the door, Catherine noticed a group of girls standing around with a skipping rope, staring at the visitors in curiosity. The laundry worker smiled at them, but got no response.
‘Poor bairns,’ she murmured to Catherine, ‘they’ve got no mams.’
‘How do you know?’ Catherine asked in surprise.
The woman gave her a strange look. ‘They’d be waiting inside if they had, wouldn’t they?’ She stepped closer. ‘Miss, do you have any sweets on you?’
Catherine felt in her pocket and pulled out a humbug. ‘That’s all I’ve got.’
‘Ta, miss.’ The woman beamed as if she had given her something precious.
As they stepped through the door, Catherine caught sight of two rows of children, one line of girls in starched white pinafores, one of boys in grey shorts and jumpers. They stood waiting, craning to see who came through the door, their faces brightening as they saw someone they knew. At the far end, a nurse clutched a pair of babies.
Realisation hit Catherine like a hammer. This was the workhouse orphanage. These children must belong to the women. This was a visit; an afternoon in which to pretend to be a mother, to not be an orphan, to say all that had to be said. She stopped in shock. How often did they get to see their childr
en? Once a fortnight, once a month? Not long enough to do anything. But then, no doubt, that was the point, as far as those in authority were concerned. Not long enough to be of influence, to taint their offspring with their wickedness.
The women lined up opposite, waiting for Hettie to stop talking to the children’s matron and give them permission to start their visit. The hall clock struck a quarter to three.
‘Right then, one hour.’
The tense silence broke as the mothers rushed forward and hugged their children and the hubbub of chatter began. The smaller girls and boys climbed on to their mothers’ knees and let themselves be cuddled. The older ones were more awkward, shifting legs, twiddling hair, biting nails.
Some mothers handed over small treats they had managed to save from their rations, or twists of sweets they had bribed staff to buy with their meagre pocket money. The young women who fiercely cradled their babies seemed the happiest, their crooning almost frantic.
Catherine looked on appalled. She felt wretched, nauseous. This could so easily have been her and Kate. Would she have rushed to embrace her mother, or shrunk from her in shame? She could tell by the resentful looks of some of the older children that the moralising of their guardians had poisoned any love. Their unmarried mothers were sinful, beyond saving. They must grow up away from them or risk going the same way.
The laundry woman was trying to engage her sullen son. He scowled at her from under dark eyebrows just like hers.
‘Feeding you well, are they? Are you workin’ in the gardens still? Must be canny to work outside this time o’ year. Hot as hell in the laundry—’
He gave her a look of alarm and she glanced round quickly to see if anyone had heard. Catherine pretended she had not. The woman ploughed on with the one-sided conversation, the boy giving occasional grunts. Eventually, she produced Catherine’s boiled sweet like a trump card and handed it over. She lapsed into silence, watching him suck.
The hour dragged on and one of the babies grew fractious. Glancing at the clock, the mother bounced her desperately, but she began to howl louder.
‘Hand her back,’ the nurse ordered, ‘it’s nearly time for her feed.’
‘Just a minute more,’ the mother pleaded, not letting go.
Hettie intervened. ‘Give her over.’
‘But I haven’t had me hour,’ the woman wailed, bursting into tears.
Hettie wrestled the baby from her and pushed her away. ‘Get back on the bus, or I’ll make sure you don’t come next time.’
The young woman pressed her hands against her face, sobbing as her baby was taken away.
‘Witch,’ the laundry worker muttered. Suddenly she stood up. ‘Haway, give the lass back her bairn. She’s not had her time.’
There was a stunned silence in the hall, apart from the weeping mother. Then Hettie was marching down the hall, barking orders.
‘You can get out now, Jenny McManners! Time’s up for all of you. Line up by the door!’
Murmurs of disbelief rippled down the hall.
‘Do as I say, or you’ll not be here next month,’ Hettie threatened.
The matron clapped her hands. ‘Come, children, say goodbye to your mothers.’
The smaller ones started to cry and cling on. Some of the women burst into tears too. Briefly, Jenny seized her son and hugged him. Catherine saw how the boy gripped his mother in return, just for an instant.
Suddenly, Catherine’s throat flooded with tears. It was too cruel on the children. Whatever their mothers had done, none of them deserved to be treated like this. She glared at Hettie, as she bowled up the hall, shoving the women towards the door and pushing the children away. Catherine was so angry and upset she could not speak. She stood, clenching and unclenching her fists.
The mother of the baby came past crying, and she put out a comforting arm, steering her out of the hall.
‘You’ll see her again soon,’ Catherine encouraged.
As the bus trundled back to town, Hettie reprimanded her. ‘You don’t touch the inmates like that.’
‘But it’s all right to hit them and shove them around?’ Catherine snapped.
Hettie stared at her. ‘What you getting all upset about? They’re just a pack of loose women and their brats - scum of the earth.’
‘They’re just bairns,’ Catherine said, choking back tears. ‘It’s not their fault.’
‘I can’t believe you’re crying over the little bastards.’
That word was like a kick to the stomach. Catherine felt her insides heave.
‘Stop the bus,’ she gasped, jumping from her seat.
The bus lurched to a halt. Catherine jumped out, bent over the verge and vomited into the ditch. The memory of that terrible hour in the comfortless hall made her retch until her stomach was empty and aching.
She turned in humiliation to see the women peering at her from the open door. Catherine scrabbled for a handkerchief and wiped her mouth.
Climbing back on, she muttered, ‘It’s the travel - always makes me sick.’
Hettie eyed her. ‘Well, well, what a fuss.’
Catherine felt an anxious flutter at her curious look. If the woman ever discovered Catherine’s own shameful origins, she knew her life would not be worth living.
Chapter 9
After her defiance, Jenny McManners was transferred from the laundry and put to work with the vagrants and tramps. Occasionally, Catherine saw her scrubbing floors when she did Saturday duties on the vagrants’ ward. But the worst punishment was being forbidden the monthly trips to the cottages.
At harvest time, when a special service and tea was laid on at the orphanage, Catherine spoke to Hettie.
‘Couldn’t McManners be allowed to go? She’s done her punishment.’
‘She broke the rules - nearly caused a riot,’ Hettie said severely.
‘She’ll not do it again, I’m sure.’
Hettie’s look was sharp. ‘It’s no concern of yours.’
Catherine said no more, fearful that the vindictive woman might start poking into her own background. All she could do was slip sweets to Jenny’s boy and say they were from his mother. He never said a word, just looked at her with sad, angry eyes. How she recognised that look: the same confused feelings of resentment and shame about being born with no da.
Catherine came to realise the best way to cover up her own past was self-improvement. She had left school without qualifications, but she would teach herself.
One free Saturday, she plucked up the courage to enter the public library. Heart hammering, she pushed open the heavy doors and went in. Never had she imagined that a place could hold so many books. As a child, she had sometimes sneaked a look at novels belonging to their lodgers, or those at her Great-Aunt Maggie’s, further up the street, but Kate had always scolded her for touching what did not belong to her. The McMullens possessed no books, apart from Uncle Jack’s well-thumbed history of the Boer War, and a copy of A Christmas Carol given by their upstairs neighbour. Catherine had often saved up her tram fare to school to buy comics and had once borrowed an annual from a girl at school and never returned it. She had read it until it fell to bits and was too ashamed to hand it back. The memory made her hot with guilt.
As Catherine stood gazing around her, wondering where to start, a librarian came to her rescue.
‘What are you looking for?’ she whispered.
Knowledge, learning, a new life.
‘Er - Shakespeare - and, em, poetry,’ Catherine floundered.
Instead of ridiculing her as she feared, the woman nodded and led her over to a vast bookcase and indicated the works of Shakespeare.
‘Poetry is over there. When you’ve chosen what you want, come to the desk and be registered.’
Catherine, almost losing her nerve in the vast
hushed library, grabbed a book randomly and hurried to the desk. Outside, she hid the book in her jacket and rushed back to her quarters. With Hettie out, she spent the afternoon immersed in Romeo and Juliet. Even though there were words she did not understand, she revelled in the sound of the language, speaking out loud to the empty room.
The next week she went back and borrowed more. That winter, she worked her way through two more plays, three novels by Dickens, poetry by Wordsworth and Matthew Arnold, The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot, and Tess of the D ‘Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. She especially identified with the tragic Tess, noble-blooded but born into poverty.
Catherine bought an exercise book and began scribbling her own short stories about luckless heroines and grand houses, trying to imitate what she had read. Her Uncle Jack had once given her a jotter and she had written a rambling tale of an Irish girl. But Kate must have used it on the fire or thrown it out during a spring-clean, because she had not seen it for years. And she still blushed to think how the local newspaper had returned her one attempt at publishing a story, after she had paid precious pennies to Amelia to type it up. No one would see these stories, especially not Hettie, so she hid them under her mattress. They were just for her - a way of losing herself in another world where she could make anything happen - for a few snatched, magical minutes.
But one book more than any other spurred on Catherine’s ambition to better herself in the eyes of the world. Someone in the queue at the desk was returning Lord Chesterfield’s Letters to His Son. Something about the title, or perhaps the author’s aristocratic name, excited her interest and she asked to borrow it next.
That evening, by lamplight in her room while Hettie played cards in the staffroom, Catherine discovered the key to her ambition. The letters were addressed to Chesterfield’s illegitimate son and laid down how he should behave in order to get on in the world. Manners and appearance were everything. She lay awake long into the night, pondering the advice, and all that following week spent every free moment reading more. When she got to the end, she started again, underlining and making notes in the margin in faint pencil as if it were a textbook. Month after month, she renewed the library book, until the pages became loosened from their binding.
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 91