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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Mrs Atter, with whom she clashed daily over how things should be done, did not approve of her attempts at familiarity either.

  ‘They need to know who’s boss,’ she scolded. ‘Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take a yard. Mrs Kettlewell was never one for mixing the classes.’

  Her talk depressed Catherine, for she had grown up with old John’s belligerent maxim that no one was any better than the next, no matter to which class they were born. But was that not what she wanted - to be taken for a middle-class woman of standing with a job people looked up to? It was the path she had chosen and she was not going to backtrack now.

  Lily had been assigned to the relieving officer, the promised job of checker never materialising. Although Catherine saw little of Lily during the day, they managed to meet up in the evening in the sewing room for a chat over their darning, or a walk around the workhouse gardens if the weather was fine. Lily assisted the relieving officer with the endless stream of unemployed men who came seeking outdoor relief. She wrote their names in the ledger and issued them with tickets that gave them a meal and a night’s rest in the casual wards.

  In the mornings when the gates swung open, a group of them trudged off down the road to work as labourers for the drainage board, digging ditches and repairing dykes until sundown.

  ‘Come from all over,’ Lily told Catherine, ‘not just the farm lads from round here. Had one man used to play the organ at the flicks - but the talkies put him out of work. And then you get the lads who haven’t had a full week’s work since they came back from Flanders.’

  It surprised Catherine that there should be so much hardship in the rural south as well as the industrial north. She had imagined the region to be full of picturesque thatched cottages, well-stocked gardens and wealthy country houses; not the drab, crumbling houses with pinched-faced women at their doors she had glimpsed on her day off.

  ‘Flanders,’ Catherine sighed, ‘and the war’s been over ten years or more. Wonder if our Jack would’ve ended up like that - an out-of-work soldier?’

  ‘Talking of soldiers,’ Lily brightened, ‘we get next Saturday off. Why don’t we meet them lads from the barracks?’

  Catherine pulled a face.

  ‘Oh, haway, Kitty,’ Lily implored. ‘We’ve not been more than five miles from Tendring in a month. I’m sick of riding round the lanes on the Stanways’ old boneshakers. The summer’s nearly over. Let’s gan to Colchester or Clacton, please!’

  ‘Do we have to meet them lads?’ Catherine was reluctant. ‘Why can’t we go on our own? I wouldn’t mind seeing if I could join the library at Colchester.’

  ‘Kitty man, we need a bit fun.’ Lily was impatient. ‘There’s no harm in it if we stick together.’

  ‘What will we tell the Stanways?’

  ‘Nowt,’ said Lily. ‘Why should they stick their noses in? It’s our day off. We’re not prisoners.’

  At that moment, they heard the jarring clang of the gates banging shut for the night and the jangle of keys in the giant lock. Catherine shivered.

  ‘All right,’ she relented, ‘you write to that lad Bob. But don’t go blabbing it about. That Mrs Atter’s always asking sly little questions about me background and that. I don’t trust her not to make a song and dance to the mistress.’

  Lily was dismissive. ‘She’s as batty as an old hen, that one.’

  ‘Still,’ Catherine warned, ‘you could tell her two’s two, and she’d make six out of it.’

  On the Friday, Lily got a note from Bob in Colchester that he and his mate Alf would meet them on the prom in Clacton-on-Sea at one o’clock, by the bandstand. They borrowed the workhouse bicycles, Lily declaring with a straight face that they were going to visit St Oswald’s Priory and look for the headless ghost.

  ‘It’s St Osyth,’ Catherine snorted in amusement as they cycled out of the gates. ‘St Oswald’s a northern saint.’

  ‘Same difference,’ Lily said. ‘The master was too busy giving us the history to notice. We’ll just pretend we’ve been to the priory, of course.’

  ‘Lily Hearn,’ Catherine laughed, ‘you’re going straight to Purgatory for that one!’

  ‘Well, let’s hope the day’s ganin’ to be worth fibbing over,’ Lily laughed back, and pedalled faster.

  They got lost twice along the maze of lanes, although they could see the coast in the distance like a tempting mirage. A warm southerly breeze buffeted them and butterflies darted out of the swaying grass, while curlews called high above in the dazzling white clouds. They arrived late, hot and breathless.

  ‘We’ll never find them in all these crowds,’ Lily fretted.

  The promenade stretched far along the low crumbling cliffs, looking down on a crowded beach and gaily painted bathing huts.

  ‘Yes we will,’ Catherine said, squinting short-sightedly into the distance. ‘Look, there’s the bandstand.’

  Lily smiled quickly, smoothed down her hair and hurried ahead, pushing her bicycle past hordes of day-trippers. Bob grinned when he saw them and stubbed out a cigarette. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, while Alf looked awkward, perspiring in a jacket and tie.

  Bob steered them to a cafe overlooking the front and paid a boy to mind the bicycles for the afternoon. They had ice-cream sodas, and began to relax in the festive air of the small seaside town. Afterwards they strolled along the promenade and watched Harlequin and Columbine performing to the crowds. Bob challenged them to kick off their shoes and stockings and paddle in the sea. Alf looked wary, but when the women raced into the shallow waves, he rolled up his well-pressed trousers and followed.

  ‘Not used to the sea,’ he confessed to Catherine. ‘Come from Warwickshire.’

  Lily shrieked as Bob began to splash them. The women retaliated and soon they were all soaked.

  ‘If old Atter could see you now, Kitty,’ Lily giggled.

  ‘She’d need smelling salts to bring her round,’ Catherine laughed.

  ‘Who’s Atter?’ Bob asked, swinging an arm round Lily.

  ‘Holy old wife at Tendring. Thinks we’re daughters of the Devil for not ganin’ to chapel. We’re Catholic, see,’ Lily explained. ‘Have to cycle to the priest in Great Bentley for confession - and to Mass on Sundays.’

  Catherine tensed, waiting for their expressions to change. She had grown up with street fights between Catholics and Protestants. Her grandfather cuffed anyone who spoke favourably of Dissenters. During the war, when rebellion broke out in Ireland, she had been spat at and called a Fenian traitor on her way to church simply for carrying a rosary.

  But Bob just laughed and kissed Lily on the cheek. ‘What good girls you are,’ he teased. ‘That halo’s blinding me.’

  Catherine slid Alf a look. He gave a bashful smile. ‘I’m Christian Scientist.’

  Bob rolled his eyes. ‘Blimey, surrounded by a bunch of Holy Joes. Don’t suppose I can tempt any of you to a drink?’

  They laughed and Catherine’s tension melted. In the end they went for tea and then fish and chips before reclaiming their bicycles.

  ‘Can we see you again?’ Bob asked, holding on to Lily’s hand.

  ‘Course,’ she answered at once. He kissed her on the cheek and made arrangements to see them in a fortnight’s time.

  Catherine and Alf exchanged looks and an awkward handshake. She liked his gentle seriousness, but experience had made her cautious. He was probably married. She was not going to make a fool of herself or allow herself to be hurt again. Alf would be kept at arm’s length.

  The warm weather of late summer continued into September. The four met up in Colchester on the next day off, then Wivenhoe at the mouth of the River Colne, a place of boat-building. Crossing the muddy creek in a punt pulled on a rope by a retired mariner, they took a picnic to Mersea Island. Catherine was entranced by the flotilla of houseboats and small ya
chts that nestled in the lee of the hilly island, and the pewits that scurried across the mudflats.

  After the picnic, Bob and Lily went off for a walk and Catherine lay back among the sea lavender, chewing on a long grass, while Alf talked about his family. An older brother had survived the Great War and come back convinced prayer had saved him.

  ‘Doctor said he wouldn’t last the night - lost that much blood. Delirious, he was. Had a vision of this figure dressed in a coarse white robe, picked him up and carried him home. Laid him on the bed in our house. Next thing he knows, he’s waking up in the field hospital babbling about seeing an angel. Nurses couldn’t believe he’d lasted the night. Two days later he’s well enough to be moved and on a ship back to England. That’s why he became a Christian Scientist. So I did too - always looked up to him.’

  Catherine sat up and shaded her eyes from the blinding light that bounced off the sea. A heron rose silently from the reeds.

  ‘Suppose you find the story hard to believe,’ Alf said apologetically.

  ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘When my grandmother was dying, she thought I was her dead daughter come back to her. Kept calling me her angel child. It worried me at the time, but now I see how it must’ve comforted her.’ She looked at Alf. ‘Maybe your brother mistook one of the nurses in his fever. But what matters is it gave him the strength to fight back and live. That’s still the power of prayer.’

  Alf stretched out his hand and covered Catherine’s. He left it resting there, warming hers, while they gazed at the rippling ocean and listened to the chittering of reed warblers. She had rarely felt so at peace as in that moment. He did not try to kiss her or spoil the silence between them and she marvelled that it could be like this with a man. The men she had known were demanding, taking from her like leeches - whether it was her grandfather, the men who courted her or the shadowy monster of her childhood with his jade-green eyes and predatory hands.

  Catherine shivered and suppressed the memory again, but Alf withdrew his hand, thinking she was warning him off.

  ‘Let’s go for a plodge,’ she suggested.

  He followed her down to the muddy beach and they paddled in the shallows. They emerged with legs dyed blue with the mud and Alf produced a spotless handkerchief to rub them down. Bob and Lily found them laughing and sand-smeared. Catherine scrutinised her friend. She looked flushed and windblown, and firmly hand in hand with Bob. Catherine felt a twinge of uneasiness at what they might have been doing.

  They lingered too long over a meal of pie and chips in Wivenhoe and were late back. It was almost dark and they had to rattle the gates for Vines to come and let them in. He grumbled loudly and the next day saw them hauled in front of the mistress to explain their lateness. Catherine discovered the woman had a temper when crossed.

  ‘We have rules for a purpose. If our staff break them, then what sort of example does that set for the inmates?’

  ‘It won’t happen again, miss.’ Lily was contrite.

  ‘No it won’t,’ Mrs Stanway snapped, ‘because we’ll not lend you our bicycles again. At least not for the rest of the month, until you’ve learnt your lesson.’

  Tears sprang to Lily’s eyes. ‘But, please, miss, we’ve arranged to meet—’ She stopped herself as Catherine nudged her to be quiet.

  ‘Arranged to meet who?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Just friends,’ Lily stammered, ‘from the army camp.’

  ‘Soldiers?’

  Lily looked away mutely.

  ‘This just won’t do,’ Mrs Stanway reproved. The guardians take a dim view of such fraternisation. Can’t have my girls bringing the place into disrepute.’

  Catherine was indignant. ‘We’ve done nothing shameful. It was our day off and we can go where we like. We’re grown women, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  The mistress glared at her in astonishment. ‘There’s no need to be rude. I thought you were quiet girls, but it’s not the first time I’ve had complaints about you. I’m just trying to run an orderly institution. You will not be late back again.’

  She dismissed them, but as they were going she called out, ‘And, Miss McMullen, you will please provide me with your birth certificate. The clerk is most insistent that he sees it.’

  They went to work without the chance to talk it over and by the time Catherine next found Lily alone in the sewing room, her friend was in a deep gloom.

  ‘I don’t think I can bear this place if I can’t get out to see Bob.’

  ‘You will,’ Catherine tried to comfort her. ‘It’ll blow over by our next day off. Mrs Stanway’s not really that bothered - it’s just the fuddy-duddy old guardians she’s scared of.’

  ‘Why’s she ganin’ on about your birth certificate, anyway?’

  Catherine shrugged evasively. ‘I bet old Atter’s stirring it up about us. You haven’t said anything about me to her, have you?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘About me home life,’ Catherine said cautiously.

  ‘Not really. Just that you don’t have any brothers or sisters. Didn’t believe me, of course. “Thought you Romans bred like rabbits.” ‘ Lily mimicked the old woman’s slow speech.

  Catherine felt a jolt of alarm.

  ‘You shouldn’t have said that. Don’t tell her owt else,’ she ordered. ‘It’s none of her business.’

  The moment the words were out, Catherine knew she had spoken too sharply. But it was too late. Lily stomped out of the room, her feelings hurt.

  Chapter 24

  Harvest came and the workhouse children fought for conkers under the chestnut trees around the church. Then strong south-easterly gales ripped away the tawny leaves and battered the gardens. Catherine and Lily hardly spoke for a fortnight, but when their next day off came round, they agreed to walk to Great Bentley and catch the bus into Colchester together. To Catherine’s dismay, Alf was on duty, and she felt awkward tagging along with the other two so took herself off to the library.

  So absorbed was she that she arrived too late for the bus back and found a worried Lily waiting for her. They had to flag down a passing farm truck to give them a lift, and ended up walking the last five miles in the dark. They were in deep trouble with Mrs Stanway, who made it plain she did not believe Catherine’s story of being in the library all afternoon. The pair were forbidden to leave the grounds for a month.

  ‘Why didn’t you keep an eye on the time?’ Lily fumed. ‘It’s not fair, her taking it out on the two of us. I was only late ‘cos of you!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Catherine said feebly.

  ‘Now I can’t gan to see Bob for a month.’

  ‘If Bob’s that keen, he can come over here and see you,’ Catherine pointed out.

  Lily gave her a withering look. ‘And do what? Talk to me through the railings in the rain? Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Well, I’m in the same boat,’ Catherine sighed. ‘Can’t get over to church or confession for weeks.’

  This seemed to rile Lily the more. ‘Don’t come over all holy with me - I know what you’re like with lads. Just ‘cos Alf didn’t turn up you had to spoil it for me and Bob. Bet you missed the bus on purpose.’

  Catherine gawped at her, astonished Lily should think such a thing. But before she could protest, Lily was gone.

  For over a week, Catherine kept out of Lily’s way, hoping that her anger would fizzle out and they would soon be friends again. But one day, in early October, she found her in tears in the storeroom. Lily shook a letter at her fiercely. ‘He’s being moved, my Bob. Ganin’ to India!’

  ‘India?’ Catherine cried, going at once to put an arm round her. ‘Oh, Lily...’

  But Lily shook her off. ‘Now I’ll never see him again and it’s all your fault!’ Her sobbing increased.

  Catherine flinched. ‘How’s it my fault he’s going to
India?’

  ‘If you hadn’t missed the bus, I’d be able to see him Saturday,’ Lily wailed. ‘Now he’s leavin’ within the week and I’ll not get to kiss him goodbye.’

  ‘Go anyway,’ Catherine dared her. ‘I’ll cover for you - give you money for a taxi.’

  ‘Taxi?’ Lily said, startled out of her misery. ‘Where we gan to find a taxi round here?’

  Catherine looked at her helplessly. ‘Why don’t you get him to meet you somewhere closer, like Great Bentley?’

  Lily was cheered by the suggestion, but after a few days of feverish correspondence, it transpired that Bob would get no time off to come to see her. She sank into depression and Catherine could do nothing to cheer her. Her friend’s subdued silence was harder to bear than her previous ranting.

  ‘You can still write to him, keep in touch.’

  ‘I’m no good at letters like you are,’ she answered despondently. ‘In a month or two he’ll have forgotten me.’

  So wrapped in misery was Lily, that Catherine did not dare ask her if Alf was being posted abroad too. She had no home address for him and he had not written to tell her of his departure. He left a gentle ache when she thought of him.

  Autumn turned to winter and raw winds swept in from the north and east. Catherine wrote to her Uncle Alec to tell him he was right about the weather and how she was thankful for Aunt Mary’s shawl. The only news she had from home came from her aunt, for Kate seemed incapable of writing even a note. Mary reported that Davie was back from sea and was doing odd jobs. Kate was borrowing off the neighbours more than ever and John was poorly in bed with a head cold and complaining of pains in his legs.