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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

‘For years I couldn’t bear the thought of her being my mother - still call her Kate like she’s my sister.’ Catherine looked at her miserably. ‘I can’t go home. You do see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. What a terrible burden for such young shoulders.’

  ‘I’ve just started putting it all behind me,’ Catherine went on. ‘Since meeting you I’ve stopped having these terrible nightmares - a man in a black robe chasing me and I can’t get away, I’m chained to something and Kate is standing watching in the distance, but she’s laughing ‘cos she thinks it’s all a joke.’

  Catherine took the handkerchief Bridie offered. ‘Thank you. You always seem to be mopping up my tears.’ She tried to smile. ‘You’re such a good friend, Bridie. More than that. Friend and mother rolled into one - a real mother who cares all the time and not just when I’ve struggled up the hill with a jarful of whisky.’

  ‘That’s because I do care,’ Bridie said. ‘But I wouldn’t say no to a drop of sherry. I think we both need one. You sit right there while I fetch a couple of glasses.’

  They stoked up the fire and Bridie sat at Catherine’s feet while they sipped sherry and ate mince pies that Bridie had brought. Later, they put chestnuts into the embers and ate them piping hot. No more mention was made of Kate or going home to Jarrow, and by the time Bridie came to leave, Catherine felt light-headed with relief that her friend knew her true situation. There would be no more secrets between them.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ Catherine said, hugging her fiercely. ‘Come back soon, won’t you?’

  ‘Like a bad penny,’ Bridie grinned, kissing her forehead. ‘I hate to leave you on your own - especially now I know what you’ve been through. If it wasn’t for Maisie—’

  ‘I know,’ Catherine reassured her quickly. ‘You don’t have to explain to me. You’re doing what a mother should - putting your daughter first. I admire you for it. Wish you were mine.’

  Bridie touched her cheek. ‘I am yours.’

  When she had gone, Catherine went back to the fire and stared into the flickering light. She was drowsy and content. This elegant room, made cosy by long velvet curtains and the yellow glow from a tall reading lamp, was her home. All hers. One day she might have someone with whom to share it.

  Bridie left for Ireland in mid-December. Catherine got a postcard of a man with a donkey. ‘This is the local taxi!’ wrote Bridie. There was no news, but she had added her address.

  Catherine wrote back a long letter, full of descriptions of the wintry landscape and news from the laundry. On Christmas Day, she attended Mass in the elegant pebble-dashed Victorian church in the old town, letting her mind wander pleasantly as she gazed into the stone-vaulted roof. Would Bridie be at church at the same time, offering up prayers of thanks to Our Lady that they had found each other?

  The Townsends, master and matron of the workhouse, treated her to a huge Christmas dinner of turkey and vegetables, followed by plum pudding and white sauce. Mrs Townsend seemed sorry for her being left on her own and had even wrapped her up a present.

  ‘It’s a blue scarf and matching gloves - just your colour, dear,’ Mrs Townsend smiled. ‘Such a shame you not getting home for Christmas. Perhaps your mother could manage a visit down here when the weather picks up?’

  The woman meant well, but Catherine shuddered at the thought of what havoc Kate might wreak in genteel Hastings.

  She rushed home and wrote an affectionate letter to Bridie. Matron had been very kind, but how she missed having a real friend at such a time, someone she could laugh with and tell secrets to. In a wave of bonhomie, Catherine rashly added,

  I hate to think of you going back to your little cell in the laundry when I’m living in such a palace! When you come back, why don’t you share it with me? There’s plenty room and you can give me a little towards the rent if you like. We can sort that out later. I’m not doing this out of charity, so don’t even think it. I’m asking because it’s lonely here without you. You being away so long has made me realise how much I miss your company. We’re like soul-mates, you and me. I’ve never loved any woman the way I love you, Bridie, except maybe Grandma Rose! Write back quickly and tell me what you think. Or better still - come back. I can’t wait to see you and give you a big, big hug.

  All my love,

  Catherine

  She went and posted it before she changed her mind. The air was sharp, prickling her nose and making her head ache. By the time she got home, her nose had started to bleed heavily and she crawled into bed, feeling suddenly depressed. If Bridie was living with her, there would be someone to take care of her when the bleedings came. How she longed to have someone to look after her. All her life people had expected her to be strong and at their beck and call.

  Catherine stayed indoors on Boxing Day, then dragged herself to work the day after. She felt tired and listless.

  ‘You sickening for something?’ Matron asked in concern.

  Catherine denied it. She could hardly tell her she was missing her friend in Ireland.

  Word came a couple of days later from Bridie. Maisie was ill and her return was delayed. Catherine fretted and worried. What if she decided not to come back after all? What if she returned but had to bring Maisie too? There was hardly room for three in the flat. When she had made the offer, it had not occurred to her that Bridie’s simple daughter might have to be accommodated too. Finally, Catherine decided that she would be prepared to take Maisie as well, if it guaranteed that Bridie came back.

  After a long day at the laundry, in the middle of January, Catherine trudged home in the dark, the pavements frosty and treacherous. When she looked up on the slippery path outside her house, she saw a crack of light between the curtains in her front room. For a moment she puzzled over whether she had left a light on all day. Her heart missed a beat.

  As she was fumbling with her key in the lock, the door opened as if by magic. There stood Bridie, smiling face flushed from the fire.

  ‘I used the spare key under the plant pot,’ she grinned. ‘Got the tea on. Sausages and tatties. You look frozen through. Come in, come in.’ Bridie held out her arms.

  Catherine hugged her in exultation.

  ‘You came back! Did you get my letter?’

  ‘I did indeed,’ Bridie laughed. ‘Why do you think I’m here, my darling girl?’

  ‘So you’ll stay?’ Catherine asked, as her friend helped her out of her coat and hung it on the back of the door.

  ‘As long as you want,’ Bridie promised. ‘I’m going to look after you from now on.’

  Chapter 28

  Catherine had never been so happy as in those spring months of 1931. During the day she worked tirelessly at her job, her attention to detail gaining Matron’s approval and admiration. In the lengthening evenings, she and Bridie would walk to the end of the pier and watch the fishing boats, or stay indoors listening to their new wireless and cooking.

  To Catherine these relaxed moments of companionship were what made her so happy. They reminded her of the rare evenings of her childhood when there had been harmony in the kitchen at William Black Street and she had sat on the warm fender reading while Rose darned, John dozed and Kate gave her the end of the pastry to shape as she wished.

  But with Bridie, the evening never ended with an explosion of temper or her in tears. There was much laughter and gossip about the laundry staff and singing along to the wireless. At night, they shared the large bed in the corner, like family, and Bridie snuggled against her back, making her feel safe and secure in the way Kate sometimes had when not reeking of whisky.

  When the summer came, Catherine introduced her friend to the tennis club and paid for lessons, ignoring Bridie’s protests that she was too old. They went there most weekends and joined in the social activities, the two women proving popular with their repertoire of songs and ready laughter.
Catherine treated Maurice and the other men with breezy friendliness as if she had never courted the previous summer, and kept them all at arm’s length. With Bridie in tow, she would quash any tittle-tattle that she played fast and loose with men. For above all, Catherine craved to be accepted by her new middle-class friends, and longed for their approval.

  At home, in the flat, she did not have to pretend; Bridie knew and accepted everything about her. Catherine bathed in the warmth of the woman’s kindness and attention. Even an awkward conversation with Mrs Townsend did not dampen her high spirits.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s wise taking Mrs McKim in as your lodger,’ Matron warned.

  ‘She’s not my lodger - she’s my friend,’ Catherine answered in surprise.

  ‘Still, it’s a very small flat to be sharing with someone - who’s - well - not one of your family.’

  Catherine bristled. ‘It’s big enough - and she’s got much more room than she’d have in the staff block. Anyway, it’s good company for me.’

  Matron studied her. ‘You’re a generous young woman. I just don’t want to see anyone take advantage of your kindness, that’s all.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Bridie’s not like that. She’d give me the shirt off her back if I asked for it. Really, Mrs Townsend, there’s no need for you to worry.’

  Afterwards, Catherine pushed the matron’s baffling comments to the back of her mind and never mentioned them to her friend, for fear she would be offended. As summer raced by, Bridie made arrangements to visit Maisie in Ireland again.

  ‘I could come with you,’ Catherine suggested. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit the place Grandda harked on about all his life.’

  But Bridie was evasive. ‘Yes, that would be grand - but maybe not this time. I’ll not be gone for long and it’s such a journey. And we’d not have time to see the sights - just a lot of visiting.’

  Catherine was disappointed and wondered if Bridie was embarrassed about her background.

  ‘I’m used to a crowded house, you know. I don’t mind if it’s not the Ritz.’

  But Bridie was stubborn. ‘Maisie might be difficult - always demanding my attention. It’d be no holiday for you at all.’

  Catherine stalked out of the flat and went for a long walk, hurt and puzzled as to why her friend should not want her to go. It did not matter to her that Maisie was dim-witted or might throw a tantrum; she had coped with much worse on the wards of Harton.

  It was dark by the time she returned, and she felt a rush of guilt to see Bridie standing in the street, shaking with cold and looking out for her.

  ‘Come in, little lamb,’ Bridie coaxed, ‘I’ve been that worried about you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine said, her anger gone.

  ‘Not as much as me.’

  Bridie fussed over her, plying her with hot tea. It was while they were making friends again, that the older woman came up with the suggestion.

  ‘Why don’t you go up to Jarrow while I’m away?’

  Catherine stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ Bridie went on quickly, ‘but you can’t go on avoiding your mother for ever.’

  ‘Why not?’ Catherine snorted.

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be right. Whatever her faults, the woman’s not to blame for everything. She never left you in the lurch like your father - she always provided for you, didn’t she? You told me yourself, Kate gave up a happy job at the bakery to come home and care for your grandma and you. Isn’t it time you went to see her?’

  ‘But I hate Jarrow,’ Catherine said in a panic.

  ‘You don’t have to go for long,’ Bridie reasoned, ‘just a few days. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you remember.’

  ‘It will be.’

  ‘What about your other relations? Won’t your Aunt Mary and Uncle Alec want to see you?’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘I suppose they might.’

  ‘There you are then. And you never know, your mother might have signed the pledge.’

  Catherine gave a short laugh. ‘Pigs might fly.’

  Yet in the days that followed, she could not get the idea out of her head. It had been over two years since she had been home. Her letters to her mother had become increasingly infrequent and Kate’s haphazard replies had been given a cursory glance and thrown on the fire. They usually had a gripe about Mary or a neighbour or the closing of some shop Catherine struggled to remember. She knew nothing about how Kate really was.

  Catherine prayed about it and confessed to the priest her reluctance to go home. Like Bridie, Father John urged her to return. She had a duty to go and see that her mother was all right. So she wrote to Kate and told her she would visit at the end of August. A letter came by return, telling her of Kate’s delight at the news.

  With much trepidation and several sleepless nights before going, Catherine boarded the train for London and then onwards north.

  It was late in the day when Catherine reached Tyneside and caught the final train for South Shields. Her heart was thumping with nervousness as the familiar landmarks of the riverside and its cranes trundled into view. As the line curved above Jarrow, she saw the blackened outline of St Paul’s and the gantries of Palmer’s yards, and felt an unexpected ache. Gazing through the grimy window, she saw a group of men chasing a football on waste ground where a chemical factory used to be.

  Alighting at Tyne Dock, she saw with relief that Kate had not come to meet her. It would have been too awkward in front of others trying to find something to say after all this time. She was grateful for the extra time to compose herself.

  Nothing seemed to have changed. The same streets and dock warehouses crowded about her and a train thundered overhead as she passed under the massive, echoing arches. Catherine had been drawn to this part of town as a small child. She remembered how she had roamed freely, gazing up at the Arab seamen, who winked at her curiosity.

  But as she walked on, something nagged and she tried to pinpoint what was different. Perhaps it was less traffic, or the down-at-heel look of shop fronts. A crowd of children scattered past her like squawking seagulls, their bare feet drumming on the dusty pavement. It struck her that she had not seen children this skinny and sallow in two years. Hastings children had boots and well-fitting clothes.

  Her sense of unease grew as she wandered down to the dock gates, only to find them shut and padlocked. Weeds were thriving, undisturbed in the cracked paving. But it was late and the buzzer for the end of work would have long gone. She backtracked and made for the steep climb up the bank to East Jarrow, passing Leam Lane where she had been born. A group of men stood sharing a cigarette outside the Alexandria pub, and she felt a sudden pang of loss for her argumentative old grandfather. This had been one of his favourite drinking haunts and she strained for the sound of his bellowing voice, knowing she was being fanciful.

  The men fell silent, watching her go past with her neat suitcase as if it was the most interesting event of their day. It was only when Catherine reached the brow of the bank and saw the solid, sooty rows of the New Buildings ahead that realisation dawned. It was too quiet. Not just the subdued men, but the town and the riverside. Where was the noise of industry: the hooters, the claxons, the sighing and clanking of machinery? The hoot of a far-off train came clear over the distant fields, whereas before it would have been drowned in the clamour of the docks.

  Catherine looked about her with new eyes. The huddle of shabby jackets at the street corner were not boys after all. Dozens of men squatted on their haunches in the evening light, playing with children’s marbles. Her insides twisted. She knew from Kate that the ironworks had never reopened, but she had no idea things were so bad at the shipyards. Even through the uncertain years after the war, when the steel mills had been mothballed, there was always work to be found at the docks.

  Catherine p
icked up her case and hurried towards William Black Street.

  ‘Hinny!’ Kate cried, standing on the doorstep in a faded apron, waving. How much older her mother looked. ‘It’s our Kitty, come at last,’ she shouted to no one in particular. ‘Doesn’t she look grand?’

  Catherine gave a nervous glance round, embarrassed to be spotted by neighbours. A few darted to their doors at the noise and called out a greeting.

  ‘Doesn’t she look well, Bessie?’ Kate challenged her neighbour. ‘I told you she was getting on down south.’

  Catherine gave her a beseeching look. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  Kate grabbed her arm and held on to her proudly. ‘Bonny frock,’ she admired. ‘Haway in and let me take a proper look at you.’

  Inside, Catherine was overwhelmed by the familiarity of the stuffy kitchen, its dark furniture and old black range.

  ‘Where’s the picture of Lord Roberts?’ she asked, noticing at once it was missing from above the mantelpiece.

  ‘Sold it,’ Kate said with a dismissive wave. ‘Always reminded me of old John making us get up in the middle of the night and march around the room. Got rid of the settle an’ all, before you ask.’

  Catherine saw that the long bench had disappeared from behind the table. ‘Where am I going to sleep then?’

  ‘In your grandda’s old bed in the parlour, of course.’

  Baffled by a sudden surge of tears in her throat, Catherine studied the clippy mat by the hearth.

  ‘Do you remember helping me with that?’ Kate asked. ‘Your grandda made a song and dance about us using his old jacket that had gone at the elbows - and we had that lilac from the bonny winter coat you always refused to wear.’

  Catherine laughed at the memory. ‘It was a terrible coat - those big puff sleeves made me look like something from a travelling circus.’

  ‘It cost me a fortune,’ Kate protested.

  ‘No it didn’t - it came from the church bazaar.’

  Kate laughed loudly. ‘Trust you to remember.’