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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Within a week, Catherine had found a pleasant one-bedroom flat on the ground floor of a large house in Clifton Road. It would be her own place of sanctuary, not a room full of borrowed furniture that reminded her of the tenements of her childhood.

  The same week, she joined the local tennis club and went there on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons. To her surprise, she improved rapidly and soon others were asking her to make up foursomes. With her new-found friends she was relaxed and gregarious, and would regale them with anecdotes about the laundry and its eccentric staff. In a game of mixed doubles Catherine met an insurance agent called Maurice.

  He started to call on her and take her on sightseeing trips in his toffee-coloured Morris Minor. They went as far afield as Brighton and the fig orchards of West Tarring; took picnics by tranquil rivers where mahogany-red cattle grazed the rich pasture. They visited the Norman castle of Herstmonceux. Maurice would not allow Catherine to pay for anything.

  ‘I could, you know,’ she offered. ‘I earn a fair salary.’

  ‘Won’t hear of it,’ Maurice declared. ‘You’re some girl. Beautiful, talented and rich - just the sort of heiress I’m looking for,’ he teased.

  Catherine laughed, captivated by his flattery.

  Maurice was not keen on walking, preferring to motor about in his prized possession, but he was genial company and she allowed him to choose where they went. As summer wore on, he talked more of what they would do after the tennis season was over, as if it was taken for granted that they would carry on courting. Catherine did everything to please him, even taking out a life insurance policy that he recommended. There was only one thing she would not do.

  ‘Come on, Catherine,’ Maurice cajoled at the end of one picnic, as they lay kissing on the edge of a ripe cornfield, ‘a little bit more -just for me.’ He slipped a hand inside her open blouse and kissed her cleavage.

  Her heart began its familiar hammering at his deft touch. ‘No, Maurice.’ She pushed his head away gently. ‘I told you, not that.’

  ‘Come on,’ he laughed, ‘you don’t have to tell everything to your priest. You’re a grown woman - I can hear your heart beating, darling. I know you want to.’

  He ran a finger up her stockinged leg and squeezed her thigh, pressing himself forward again and kissing her lips. Catherine felt her resolve waver. He excited her and part of her yearned to give in to the sweet longing inside. But always, when she got to this point, the image of Kate copulating with her unknown father forced itself to mind. It made her queasy and fearful. Never, ever, must she make such a stupid ruinous mistake.

  She shoved Maurice from her and sat up. ‘No! I don’t want to - and I do have to tell the priest everything at confession.’

  He looked at her with pleading brown eyes. ‘I can tell you don’t love me - not the way I love you.’

  ‘I do,’ Catherine protested, feeling confused.

  ‘I’m mad about you, girl,’ Maurice said, holding her face in his hands and covering her with soft kisses like butterflies. ‘If you really loved me, you’d show it by making love. That’s all we’d be doing, darling, just loving each other. I’ll be careful. I’ve come prepared.’

  Catherine felt a surge of alarm. What did he mean by ‘prepared’? He must have some sort of contraception. But that was forbidden too. It was a sin akin to murder, the priest said.

  ‘Stop it.’ She pushed him away again and scrambled to her feet. ‘I want you to take me home, please.’ She hated the way she sounded like a whining child.

  He looked suddenly annoyed. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, girl. You and your stuffy religion - it’ll stop you being happy - all this guilt and no fun. Well, it’s not for me.’

  ‘Don’t talk about my religion like that. We Catholics know how to have fun as much as you Protestants - maybe more so,’ she answered in agitation. ‘But I’ll not put my soul at risk just to give you a few minutes’ gratification.’

  ‘Is that all you see it as - my gratification?’ Maurice asked with a wounded look.

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘Course not. I love you. I’ve told you enough times, haven’t I?’

  Catherine looked at him helplessly. ‘If you really loved me,’ she said quietly, ‘you wouldn’t push me to make love to you - not until I want to - not until we’re—’ She broke off in embarrassment.

  ‘What?’ Maurice demanded.

  ‘Married,’ Catherine whispered hoarsely.

  He stared at her, then laughed shortly. ‘Oh, marriage.’ He said it as if it were of no consequence. ‘What an old-fashioned girl you are, after all.’

  Catherine reddened. ‘What do you mean, after all?’

  Maurice picked himself up and straightened out his clothes, adjusted his tie. ‘I got the impression at the club that you were - well, you know - one of those girls that was up for a good time.’

  ‘I-I am,’ Catherine stuttered.

  He glanced at her. ‘No, I mean, modern. Available.’ He stressed the word. ‘As a matter of fact, all the chaps at the club thought that. You shouldn’t give out such signals, Catherine, if you don’t really want it. Get you into real trouble. If I wasn’t such a gentleman . . .’

  She gawped at him, quite speechless.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said brusquely. ‘Get in the car and I’ll take you home.’

  Tears flooded her eyes as she groped to gather up the remains of the picnic. What had she done to earn such a reputation at the tennis club? She had never led anyone on. Maurice, of all people, knew that she was chaste. It was so unfair! She swallowed tears of anger and hurt as she fumbled to close the picnic basket. But she was too upset to speak as Maurice started the car and drove back down to Hastings. She sat feeling wretched, knowing that this brief summer affair was over.

  When the car drew up outside her house, Maurice leant over and, for a wild moment, Catherine thought he would kiss her.

  ‘Better do up those buttons,’ he said, glancing at her blouse as he opened the passenger door. As she fumbled to do them up, he sat waiting for her to get out, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and whistling a tune.

  She scrambled out and slammed the door, a mumbled thank you dying in her throat. The car roared away, leaving her staring numbly after it. Only later, when she dragged herself into the large bed in the corner of her spacious sitting room, still fully clothed, did she realise she had left her picnic basket in the back of his car.

  She would not ask for it back. Catherine could not face the prospect of ever seeing Maurice again. How foolish she would feel, wondering what he might say about her. Perhaps he would pretend they had made love, so as not to lose face, and her reputation would be further tarnished. She buried her burning face in the pillow in anguish over how the men at the tennis club talked about her. Just because she made her own living, had her own flat and relied on no man, they misjudged her. Did her women friends think the same too? Did they gossip about her behind her back, jealous that she was so independent at twenty-four?

  Catherine wept through the night, wondering why it was she attracted such men - married men or deceitful, needy men. There must be something wrong with her. She must be to blame - or why did it keep happening? She hit herself with her fists and dug her nails into her flesh. How hateful she was. A bastard inside and out. She would never find happiness with a man, because they would always be able to see through her. No matter how refined her speech or genteel her manners, they would always discover that beneath lurked common, foul-minded Kitty of the New Buildings, Kate’s shameful daughter. Kate! Catherine sobbed in desolation. It always came back to Kate.

  In the early hours, she was seized by cramps. She doubled up in pain and could not move. By morning her period came. She missed Mass, lying on her bed curled up against the world, listening to the sounds: distant bells, a child’s voice singing
, footsteps on the pavement passing by.

  She dozed and dreamt she was back in Jarrow, ill in bed. The curtain lifted in the breeze and she heard the children playing in the lane, chanting a skipping game. They were calling out her name, but she could not move. Kate was shouting at her to get up and join them, but she was pinned to the prickly mattress and when she tried to call back, no voice came.

  ‘Miss McMullen? Catherine!’

  A voice woke her. For a confused moment, she thought it was Grandma Rose, then the pain of remembrance washed over her with renewed force. She lay back and kept quiet. The caller would soon go away. But whoever it was knocked at the door more loudly.

  ‘Miss McMullen! Are you in there?’

  A neighbour from the flat upstairs called down. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m looking for my friend. Sorry to bother you. But would you know if Catherine McMullen’s at home? She wasn’t at church this morning and I was worried something was wrong.’

  It was Bridie McKim.

  ‘Haven’t seen her today. Car dropped her off yesterday afternoon. Maybe she’s just having a day off. Curtains are still drawn.’

  ‘So I see. Do you have a key to her flat?’ Bridie asked. ‘Maybe she’s lying in there unconscious.’

  Catherine sat up indignantly. What business was it of theirs whether she missed church or took a day off? She would lie dying in bed if she wanted to without them poking their noses in. The neighbour was answering that she did not have a key, but they could always try breaking down the door. Catherine struggled out of bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes and hurriedly straightened out the covers.

  But Bridie was cautioning against it.

  ‘No, no, I’ll be off. If you happen to see her, tell her Bridie McKim was here - and if she needs anything just to send a message.’

  Catherine stood on the other side of the door holding her breath as she listened to Bridie walking down the hallway and closing the front door. A flush of relief was quickly followed by regret. How kind of the woman to notice her absence from St Mary Star-of-the-Sea and to bother calling. Tears stung her tired eyes. No one else in Hastings would have put themselves to such trouble.

  Catherine rushed to the large bay window and pulled back the curtain. She rapped hard on the glass.

  ‘Wait, Bridie!’ she called. The visitor glanced round, her surprise giving way to a broad smile. Catherine beckoned her back and she waved in acceptance.

  ‘I was sleeping,’ Catherine explained sheepishly, as she opened the door.

  ‘Poor lamb,’ Bridie said in concern, ‘you look terrible - and there I was waking you with my noise. I’ll come back later.’

  ‘No, stay,’ Catherine insisted. She was sick of her own company and could not bear the thought of being left alone any longer. ‘Come in, please. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Bridie said. ‘You’ll sit down while I do it.’

  To her own amazement, Catherine meekly did as she was told. Bridie pulled back the curtains, letting the sun flood in, then bustled into the small kitchen and made tea while Catherine flopped into a big armchair.

  ‘Cups are in the cupboard over the bath,’ Catherine called.

  ‘Don’t move, I’ll find them,’ Bridie called back, humming as she went about the task.

  Catherine felt overwhelming relief, just sitting doing nothing, watching the redheaded woman move about the flat taking command. She felt the same snug contentment she remembered from her earliest childhood when she sat between Rose’s knees having her hair brushed, while Kate pulled bread from the oven, singing under her breath.

  It was a women’s world in which she had felt cosy and secure. At no time since had she felt so wrapped around in warmth and contentment as in those earliest days when she had thought Rose her mother and Kate merely a boisterous older sister.

  She did not need men; Catherine was struck by the sudden revelation. If men thought so little of her, she could manage without them. As long as there were women like Bridie to remind her of real friendship, she would be content.

  ‘Here, drink this.’ Bridie held out a steaming cup of tea. ‘Then you can tell your Auntie Bridie all your troubles.’

  Catherine took the cup and smiled in gratitude.

  Chapter 27

  Catherine and Bridie became firm friends. That autumn they spent their free time together, strolling along the promenade arm in arm like school friends, or going to the cinema. Bridie liked to laugh at Charlie Chaplin; Catherine preferred glamorous Mary Pickford.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny about a poor man down on his luck,’ Catherine complained. ‘I want a story with a happy ending.’

  Bridie laughed. ‘What a little romantic you are. We’ll go and see what you want. I can take Maisie to the flicks when I go home at Christmas. She loves the funny men.’

  Maisie was Bridie’s twelve-year-old daughter, left in the care of family in Ireland while Bridie sought work in England. She often talked of the day she would have saved up enough money to bring her daughter over too. Catherine already felt sad at the thought of not spending Christmas with her new friend.

  ‘We’ll go and see both films,’ Catherine declared, ‘Chaplin for the matinee and Pickford in the evening, just in case you don’t get the chance in Ireland.’

  Bridie clapped her hands in delight. ‘What a thoughtful girl you are.’ She looked at her fondly. ‘I wish you were my daughter, so I do.’

  ‘What about Maisie?’ Catherine blushed.

  Bridie sighed. ‘Oh, Maisie. She’s a sweet girl, but. . . she’s not quite twelve pennies in the shilling, if you get my meaning.’

  Catherine did not like to press her further. It was enough that Bridie confided in her, for no one else at the laundry, apart from the motherly matron, Mrs Townsend, knew that Bridie had a child. Once again, Catherine had a confidante, someone to take the place of Lily. But Bridie was worldlier and Catherine could tell her anything and be assured of sympathy. So she told her about the disastrous love affairs with Frank and Gerald on Tyneside, and Maurice in Hastings; of her regret that nothing had come of her friendship with Alf in Essex. The only subject she refused to talk about was Kate, and Bridie did not push her.

  Her friend helped her choose furniture for her flat, scouring secondhand shops and auctions for bargains. She bought an antique walnut table and chairs to go in the window, and willow-patterned plates; fancy brass fire irons and a glass-fronted bookcase for her growing collection of books. Catherine would rather skip meals and scrimp on food so that she could afford luxuries for her flat. Yet she was careful with her money, always putting half her salary away each month and choosing her purchases after much thought.

  ‘You have the tastes of a real lady,’ Bridie would admire. ‘Are you sure you’re not the daughter of the Duke of Northumberland?’ Catherine knew she was being teased, but on several occasions nearly blurted out that she was indeed the daughter of a gentleman.

  When Christmas neared, Catherine grew morose.

  ‘Why don’t you go home to your parents?’ Bridie suggested. ‘Won’t they be expecting it? When’s the last time you saw them?’

  ‘A year and a half ago,’ Catherine answered guiltily.

  ‘Well then, off you go and enjoy yourself. You’re too young to be spending your holidays on your own.’

  ‘The Townsends have kindly invited me round for Christmas dinner,’ Catherine said, trying to summon enthusiasm.

  ‘They’re even older than me,’ Bridie protested. ‘No, you get yourself up north with your Irish cousins. I bet they know how to celebrate.’

  Something in Catherine’s expression must have betrayed her dread. Bridie sat down beside her on the seat in the bay window. Outside the wind battered the trees and tugged at the hats of passers-by.

  ‘W
hat’s the matter? Is it something I said?’

  Catherine shook her head, then abruptly succumbed to tears. Bridie pulled her into her arms and stroked her hair in comfort.

  ‘There, there,’ she crooned, ‘have a good weep. Tell Auntie Bridie what’s upsetting you.’

  Haltingly, Catherine began to tell her friend all about Kate and the shame of having no father that hung over her like a black cloud. She told her of Kate’s destructive drinking and the fear of growing up in a warring house, where moods could change in an instant and beatings were as common as rainy days.

  ‘My stepfather, Davie, is canny enough,’ Catherine conceded, ‘but he’s weak - can’t say no to Kate. When he’s home from sea with a bit of money in his pocket, the drinking goes on for days.’ She looked at Bridie, willing her to understand. ‘You can’t imagine what it was like growing up there. I thought I had a real mam and dad and three big sisters and a brother. Then one day, the bairns in the street started picking on me - pushing me around. I pushed them back. Then they said it.’ Catherine gulped back tears. ‘ “You’ve got no da, you’ve got no da”, on and on like a skipping song. They all knew, and I didn’t. Said me mam was Kate. “You’ve got no da and your mam’s a drinker.” ‘

  Tears spilt down her face as she forced herself to remember.

  ‘And I ran into the back yard to get away from the horrible chanting - and I looked up and there was Kate staring at me. I was only seven, but I knew that instant it was all true.’ Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. ‘She’d heard everything. But she was smiling. Standing at the door and smiling. It was the worst moment of me life and yet the stupid woman was smiling, like I should be pleased with the news.’ Catherine shuddered. ‘I’ll never forgive her for that smile - never.’

  ‘Hush, hush,’ Bridie comforted, rocking her in her arms, ‘my poor, darling girl.’