There’s no need,’ Catherine said hastily. ‘I’ll take her luggage.’
‘Here she is,’ Kate bellowed, ‘my posh daughter, Kitty. Oops, s-sorry, likes to be called Catherine. Bet you thought I was making it up, lad.’ She laughed loudly as she stumbled against the guard.
‘Steady, ma’am. Let me help you to the barrier.’ He shot Catherine an amused look.
‘Looked after Kitty for years - now she’s ganin’ to look after me,’ Kate giggled. ‘That’s fair, isn’t it?’
‘Sounds fair to me,’ the guard answered, winking at Catherine.
She followed behind with Kate’s two bags, puce with embarrassment. Swiftly she hailed a taxi and bundled her mother in the back. She did not look capable of walking to the new flat and Catherine feared a scene in public. By the time she had marched her mother up the stairs to the maisonette and staggered up with her heavy bags, Catherine was seething with anger.
She turned on Kate. ‘How dare you turn up in such a state?’
‘What state?’ Kate looked at her wearily.
‘Drunk, that’s what,’ Catherine snapped.
‘Just had a little nip,’ Kate said, flopping into a chair. ‘Keeps the cold out. London’s perishing.’
‘You promised you wouldn’t drink any more,’ Catherine accused. ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to you coming here if I thought you were still hitting the bottle.’
Kate gave a hurt look. ‘I was celebratin’. Ta-ra Jarrow, hello Hastings.’ She started to hiccup. ‘D-on’t be cr-oss.’
Catherine gave a sigh of exasperation and strode to the kitchen for a glass of water. By the time she returned, Kate’s eyes were closed and her breathing heavy.
‘You can’t go to sleep here.’ Catherine shook her. Kate grunted and slumped further into the chair. Moments later she was snoring loudly.
Bridie came back from the shops to find Catherine sitting at the window her face wet with tears.
‘What’s wrong, girl?’ she asked in concern.
Catherine jerked her head at the sleeping Kate. ‘Turned up drunk, didn’t she? Same as ever. It’s all a big mistake. I should never have let her come.’ She covered her face and wept anew.
Bridie put an arm around her. ‘She was probably that excited about seeing you. It doesn’t mean she’s at the drink all the time. Come on, cheer up. We’re the bosses here and we’ll not let her slip back into bad ways.’
When Kate woke, she was contrite and made an effort to be complimentary about her new home. She hobbled into the kitchen and rolled up her sleeves.
‘I’ll wash the dishes,’ she insisted. ‘You two workers put your feet up by the fire.’
‘Told you so,’ Bridie whispered to Catherine, as she picked up her knitting and settled in a chair. ‘Come on, sit down and read something to me.’
Catherine began a new chapter of Great Expectations, which they had been reading together. After a while Kate emerged from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea.
‘We’ll have this before bed, eh?’ she said. ‘You carry on readin’, hinny. I like to listen to you. She used to do a bit writin’ herself, did you know that, Bridie?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Bridie gave a surprised look.
‘Do you still do your writin’, Kitty?’
Catherine blushed. ‘No, not for ages.’ She would feel awkward explaining that she only wrote when she was lonely or unhappy. It was something that had filled in the long evenings at Harton and Tendring.
‘Used to scribble away in an old exercise book,’ Kate continued. ‘Our Jack nicked it for her from a school where he was billeted during the war. Filled every little inch of it, did our Kitty. Whatever happened to it, I wonder.’
‘You probably threw it on the fire,’ Catherine snorted, secretly astonished her mother had taken such notice.
‘I wouldn’t have,’ Kate protested, ‘but maybes old John did. Used it for tapers, more than likely.’
‘Well, what a dark horse,’ Bridie said in amusement. ‘Catherine a writer.’
‘Aye, and she wrote this long story for the Shields Gazette, but they sent it straight back. And after all that work and paying for that lass Amelia to have it typed up proper like in a book.’
‘Bridie doesn’t want to hear about all that,’ Catherine cried. ‘It was just childish—’
‘You always had a head for a story, mind,’ Kate went on. ‘The tales she used to come out with about leprechauns and fairies at the bottom of our lane - and telling all her school friends that I was courtin’ Dr Dyer - now that was a fairy story if ever there was one! Her grandda said all her tale-telling would land her in gaol or make her a fortune.’
Bridie and Kate laughed together.
‘Well,’ said Bridie, ‘let’s hope it’s the fortune, for all our sakes.’
After Kate’s arrival, Catherine and Bridie made sure that no alcohol was brought into the house. Kate seemed to settle in easily, busying herself with cleaning the flat and making meals. Every day she walked to the shops, looking for bargains at the butcher’s and grocer’s. She washed on Mondays, ironed on Tuesdays, baked on Wednesdays, washed the windows Thursdays, scrubbed the kitchen Fridays and baked again on Saturdays.
‘See, she’s managing just fine without a drink,’ Bridie declared one night, after Kate had gone to bed. ‘It was high spirits when she first arrived, that’s all.’
Only one problem arose those first weeks. Mrs Hind, their widowed neighbour downstairs, complained at Kate hanging out washing in the shared back courtyard.
Mrs Hind waylaid Catherine on her return from work. ‘Monday has always been my day, and your mother never takes in the washing line when she’s finished. I have to look at her bare line all week.’
Catherine asked Kate to wash on Tuesday or Wednesday instead.
‘But I’ve always washed on Mondays,’ Kate protested. ‘If I leave it till later, all me other jobs get knocked back.’
‘Please, Kate,’ Catherine pleaded. ‘Does it matter?’
‘All right for you to say, but I’m the one doing the hard graft. That wife downstairs has only herself to wash for; why can’t she shift her day?’
‘She goes out other days,’ Catherine explained, ‘and she’s old and set in her ways.’
Kate snorted. ‘She might push you around, but she’ll not push me.’
Catherine gave up arguing and resigned herself to being lectured by her neighbour every Monday. She had hoped that the widow might have been a companion for Kate, someone with whom to share a cup of tea. But from Mrs Hind’s disparaging remarks, Catherine realised the woman thought she was far socially superior to Kate. This irked Catherine, so she left the neighbour to fight her own washing battles with Kate.
‘Your mother needs company,’ Bridie said, when they discussed the issue. ‘It’s time for Maisie to come.’
Word was sent to Bridie’s sister in Ireland to arrange the ferry crossing. Bridie would meet her at the other end and bring her to Hastings on the train.
‘Our first Christmas all together!’ Bridie cried in excitement, the day she left to collect her daughter.
‘What’s she like, this Maisie?’ Kate asked, after Bridie had gone.
Catherine shrugged. ‘Never met her.’
‘You mean she’s never been over here in all that time?’ Kate exclaimed.
‘No, but Bridie’s been home to see her often enough,’ Catherine defended.
‘So what’s wrong with her?’ Kate persisted.
‘Nothing.’ Catherine grew impatient. ‘She’s not very bright, that’s all.’
‘Feeble-minded, you mean?’
‘No! Well, she just needs a bit of looking after.’
‘And that’s my job, isn’t it?’ Kate gave her a look. ‘That’s why your precious Bridie wants me h
ere - to look after her lass, while she gans off to work.’
‘You’re the one begged to come down here,’ Catherine reminded her. ‘If it doesn’t suit, you can sharp go home.’
Yet Catherine too was apprehensive about the new arrival. How handicapped was Maisie? Would she throw fits or wet the bed or wander around at night like some of the inmates at Harton? Kate was only echoing her own fears. The Stanways at the Essex workhouse had shocked her with their belief that such people should be kept locked up.
‘I’d sterilise the lot of them,’ the master had declared. ‘They’ll only bring more mental defectives into the world, given half the chance. Runs in the family, you see.’
Catherine had squirmed at such conversations for it echoed the bigotry she had thought to escape. The Stanways and other adherents of the eugenics society would no doubt condemn her just as harshly for being illegitimate. Her mother’s weakness was a moral disease that would taint her too, in their eyes. That was why she had to leave, before they confronted her about it.
As Catherine waited tensely for Bridie to return, she felt ashamed of her unspoken fears.
Chapter 32
It was late when the travellers returned, Catherine and Kate waiting up and struggling to stay awake.
‘What a big lass!’ Kate blurted out on seeing Bridie’s daughter. ‘I thought you were just a bairn.’
‘Hello, Maisie,’ Catherine smiled. ‘You must be tired out.’
Maisie clung to her mother, avoiding their eyes. Bridie looked exhausted.
‘Don’t be shy, girl. Say hello to the nice ladies,’ she coaxed. But Maisie hung her head and said nothing.
‘I’ll fetch the tea,’ Kate said quickly.
‘Let me take your coat,’ Catherine offered. ‘Would you like to see your room, Maisie? We’ve painted it blue, ‘cos your mam said that was your favourite colour.’
Maisie looked at her mother as if Catherine had not spoken. ‘Milk and two sugar lumps, please.’
‘Yes, pet,’ Bridie smiled, ‘now take off your coat and give it to Catherine.’ She helped the girl out of her coat and handed it over. The friends exchanged looks. Bridie said, ‘I think Maisie should sleep with me tonight - until she gets used to her new home. You don’t mind going in the little room for a night or two, do you?’
‘Maisie sleep with you tonight,’ Maisie repeated before Catherine had time to answer.
‘That’s right,’ Bridie reassured, ‘Catherine won’t mind. Now sit with me and drink your tea.’
They sat at the table in the window, slurping tea, while Bridie told them of the journey. Catherine tried not to stare at Maisie the way her mother did. Kate was right; Maisie looked older than her fourteen years. She was large, her body fully grown and her black hair coiled into a bun like a middle-aged woman, though, watching her methodically stir and sip her tea, Catherine saw that her face was fresh-skinned and youthful.
Soon Bridie was ushering her daughter into the main bedroom. Maisie ignored their good nights, then turned in the doorway.
‘There are thirty-two steps,’ she announced. ‘Twenty steps then twelve steps. Thank you for the tea.’ Then she went into Catherine’s bedroom.
Bridie laughed at their puzzled faces. ‘The steps into the flat,’ she explained proudly. ‘Maisie notices things like that. Wake us in the morning, won’t you?’
When the door had closed, Kate said, ‘Well, she’s a queer one. Not so much as a how-do-you-do, but she’s counted the steps to the maisonette. Not sure I can be left with her all day long.’
‘You’ll get on grand,’ Catherine yawned. She was annoyed at the way Bridie had commandeered her bedroom without even asking, but if it helped Maisie settle in then she could hardly complain.
The next day went well, all four of them going to Mass, then returning home for a big breakfast of bacon, eggs and fried bread. The day was wintry but they took Maisie for a walk along the pier, pointing out the harbour and the fishing fleet. When they got home, the girl told them there were sixteen boats in the bay compared to twelve boats at the harbour back in Ireland, one of which belonged to Uncle Michael.
‘You’ll be a help to me when it comes to countin’ up the pennies for shopping,’ Kate said with a laugh.
But on Monday morning there was a scene when Bridie left for work. Maisie went to the door and howled like a baby. Kate tried to pull her back, but the girl was strong and pushed her over. Bridie came back and reasoned with her daughter, but by this time she was hysterical. Mrs Hind came to her door, demanding to know what the noise was all about.
‘Get her to count the stairs,’ Catherine suggested in desperation. ‘How many stairs can you see, Maisie?’
The crying subsided a fraction. Maisie peered over the banisters.
‘Auntie Kate will count them with you,’ Catherine encouraged. ‘Go on,’ she hissed at her mother.
They left Kate and Maisie walking up and down the stairs, counting out loud.
Each morning, Maisie’s protests at her mother’s going lessened, until she sat at the table unconcerned and not even calling out goodbye.
Catherine noticed the way the girl began to follow Kate around, and wanted her to fix her hair rather than Bridie.
Kate grumbled, ‘I cannot even gan to the privy without her comin’ too. She’s like me shadow.’ But Catherine was sure her mother was secretly pleased that Maisie had taken to her so quickly.
Bridie was less keen on her daughter’s transfer of affections.
‘She’s too old to have her hair put in ringlets,’ she complained, when Kate bound Maisie’s hair in rags one night.
‘She’ll look bonny,’ Kate contradicted, ‘much better than that old maid’s bun you make her wear.’
‘Look bonny,’ Maisie echoed solemnly. ‘Sixteen ringlets.’
By December, Catherine insisted that Maisie move out of her bedroom and into her own.
This is my flat,’ she pointed out, when Bridie prevaricated. ‘You can squeeze into Maisie’s room with her if you want to stay together, but I’m having my own bed back.’
Far from having the tantrum that Bridie predicted, Maisie accepted the move without a murmur.
‘I like the blue room,’ she announced at breakfast. ‘Milk and two sugars. Thank you, Auntie Kate.’
As Christmas drew near, they threw themselves into preparations for their first Christmas together at the new flat. Kate was given extra money to buy ingredients for mince pies and plum pudding. Catherine and Bridie had a happy Saturday afternoon buying presents, and Maisie helped them decorate a tree, though she broke as many baubles as she hung up.
‘Watch out, you clumsy lass,’ Kate scolded, as Maisie knocked into her when she was carrying a hot tray of pies. Three of them rolled on the floor. Maisie fled to her bedroom.
‘It’s you should be more careful,’ Bridie defended; ‘could’ve given the girl a nasty burn.’
Kate dumped down the remaining pies. ‘You make your own Christmas dinner then. I’m not your bloody servant!’ She whipped off her apron, hurtled to the door and grabbed her coat on the way out.
‘Where you going?’ Catherine called after her in alarm.
‘None of your business,’ Kate shouted as she slammed the door.
Bridie looked baffled. ‘What did I say?’
Catherine sighed. ‘I’ll go after her. She might have money in her pocket.’
She caught up with Kate along the front. A cold sleet splattered over the railings. ‘Stop! What’s got into you? Bridie was just upset at you shouting at Maisie.’
Kate was about to answer back, then her shoulders slumped and she let go a long sigh.
‘I’m sick of Bridie ordering me around like a skivvy as if she’s lady muck. And that Maisie,’ Kate complained, ‘she’s canny enough, but it’s hard w
ork having her around all day on me own. I cannot gan anywhere without her tappy-lappying along and talking daft.’ She gave Catherine a look of desperation. ‘Can I not have a little drink this Christmas, a bit fun, hinny?’
Catherine turned away and gazed out over the choppy grey sea. The last thing she wanted was her mother drinking again. Yet she had shouldered the burden of running the house and looking after Maisie with little complaint. It must be lonely at times, with no other friends or neighbours to gossip with or lighten the day. Did she not deserve a celebratory drink just this once?
‘Please, Kitty,’ Kate pleaded, ‘just a little nip on Christmas Day.’
Catherine turned and said, ‘Just with Christmas dinner, then.’
To Catherine’s surprise, their first Christmas together was a happy one. The day was crisp and clear, the sea pearly blue as they made their way to Mass. Bridie had insisted on staying behind to make the dinner, to give Kate a day off, and Maisie walked contentedly between them, wrapped in a new purple scarf and hat that Catherine had chosen for her.
When they returned, Catherine was puzzled by strange whining and scratching noises behind the bedroom door.
‘What you got in there?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘The turkey escaped?’
Bridie laughed. ‘Go on, open the door and let the darling out.’
The moment Catherine did so, a small white-haired terrier came scurrying out, skidding across the linoleum with a bark of excitement. He ran around her legs, then raced around the table, leaping up at Kate.
‘Oh, get down!’ she shrieked.
Maisie screamed and clapped her hands, which only made him bark louder. Catherine went at once to pet him. ‘You’re a bonny lad, what’s your name?’
‘That’s for you to decide,’ Bridie smiled. ‘He’s yours. My present to you.’
Catherine gave a cry of delight. ‘Mine? That’s wonderful!’ She crouched down and cuddled the dog, allowing him to lick her face.
‘I knew you’d love him,’ Bridie grinned. ‘Had the Townsends keep him overnight - went and fetched him this morning.’
Catherine laughed as she played with the dog. ‘Aren’t you a dark horse, keeping a secret like this! It’s the best Christmas present I’ve ever had.’
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 109