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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  When Catherine did fall asleep, she was caught in a web of recurring nightmares. The black-hooded priest was always walking towards her, about to envelop her in his darkness, never showing his face. In the dream, she escaped into a room that turned out to be the old bedroom at William Black Street. Kate was in the bed, laughing at her. The noise would give them away. She picked up the pillow and covered Kate’s face, trying to stifle the laughter, just for a minute. She kept pressing on the pillow, but the tall black figure always found her. She s dead, dead, his voice would echo. Then she was sobbing by a corpse laid out in the parlour, fluids dripping from the trestle into a bucket. Terrified and alone, Catherine dared herself to look at the face. But it wasn’t Kate, it was Grandma Rose.

  Catherine woke from these nightmares crying out and bathed in sweat. Bridie grew tired of being woken and trying to soothe her.

  ‘Perhaps you should see the doctor,’ Bridie yawned in exhaustion. ‘You’re worn out - we both are.’

  ‘And tell him what? That I dream about smothering me mother with a pillow!’

  ‘Well, if she’s the cause of all this, it’s time she went. I’ve lost all patience with the woman. She throws our help back in our faces. It’s as if she’s daring us to put her out.’

  Catherine buried her face in her hands. Bridie was right. Kate seemed constantly to be spoiling for a fight. Catherine was fraught with trying to avoid one, bottling up her anger like steam in a pressure-cooker. What really frightened her was the growing urge inside to harm Kate, to unleash that anger. What kind of appalling person was she?

  It was the shame that engulfed her after such dreaming that made Catherine carry on putting up with Kate’s increasing madness.

  Early summer came and the only residents left were the major, Mrs Fairy and Dorothy, who seemed impervious to practical joking. In desperation, Catherine and Bridie went round the local hotels and asked if they had any overflow of customers. She put up a notice on the church board and in shop windows.

  A trickle of summer visitors came, but none of them stayed more than a few days. The beds were not made properly, the hot water ran cold, the puddings tasted salty or the soups sweet. Then a French woman came to stay on a painting holiday.

  She was charming and cultured, and Catherine took to her at once. After the evening meal they would sit in the conservatory and talk about books, Catherine trying out her rudimentary French that she had learnt in her Harton days. Madame Clevy introduced her to French writers such as Voltaire and Flaubert, lending her books in translation. She could play tennis and it spurred Catherine on to cut the lawn and hold a tennis party, inviting friends from the club.

  All that sunny Saturday afternoon they played in the secluded garden at The Hurst, and sat about on rugs or lounged in deck chairs. Kate came and went, puffing in the heat and joking with guests. Catherine was pleased to see her making an effort to be friendly.

  At tea time, Catherine went inside to carry out a tray of drinks.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Madame Clevy insisted, and followed her into the kitchen.

  The door was open into the butler’s pantry. Kate was swigging from a bottle. Catherine froze. Her mother saw them, calmly put the stopper back in and placed it under the sink with the cleaning materials.

  She came out swaggering. ‘Well, well, caught you both together, haven’t I? Kitty and her little French sweetheart.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Madame Clevy looked puzzled.

  Kate lurched towards them. Catherine caught a strong whiff of spirits.

  ‘Wanted a little bit of a kiss and cuddle in the pantry, eh?’ Kate cackled.

  ‘Shut up!’ Catherine ordered, blushing hotly.

  ‘Well, you’re wasting your time, madame,’ Kate said loudly. ‘She’s already spoken for. Bridie’s her little companion. Lady in the bedchamber.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Catherine hissed. She took the French woman by the elbow and pulled her towards the door. ‘I’m so sorry, she’s not herself.’

  ‘Drunk, you mean?’ Kate came after them, grabbing at Catherine. ‘Yes, I am. It’s me only pleasure in this bloody place! Too busy with your fancy friends to care about me. Never cared about me. I might as well be dead, for all the notice you take. Hate me, don’t you? Don’t you?’ she screamed.

  Catherine shook her off, her heart thudding in agitation. ‘Keep away from me! Don’t you dare come back out in such a state, or I’ll never forgive you.’

  She hurried away, stuttering apologies to Madame Clevy. Outside, Bridie saw at once she was upset.

  ‘Is it Kate?’ she asked. Catherine nodded.

  ‘Let me deal with her,’ Bridie said, and went inside.

  Ten minutes later, she reappeared with the tea tray, smiling. Passing Catherine she murmured, ‘Locked her in the pantry.’

  Catherine gasped. Kate was probably drinking herself unconscious. Insides knotting, Catherine forced a smile and set about pouring tea. The afternoon was ruined and she could not wait for people to leave, fearful of Kate breaking out and making a scene.

  Bridie cut the cherry cake and handed it round. Madame Clevy took a bite, then cried out. She held her jaw.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘Something hard - my tooth,’ she gabbled.

  Catherine grabbed her plate and pulled something out of the cake. It was a small hammer from the piano.

  ‘How on earth did that get there?’ said Joyce, one of her tennis friends.

  Catherine knew if she answered she would burst into tears. Her mother was spiteful and hateful! She would not stop until she had driven away all her lodgers, all her friends. It was the final straw.

  She banged down the plate and strode back into the house. She was going to give Kate such an earful! She would kick her out on to the street, there and then. To hell with what the neighbours thought! Her mother could beg in the gutter, for all she cared.

  As she marched into the kitchen, she heard Bridie hurrying behind her.

  ‘Catherine, don’t do anything hasty—’

  ‘Just try and stop me,’ Catherine cried.

  She rushed to the pantry, turned the key and wrenched the door open. Kate was sprawled on the floor, an empty bottle lying beside her. She was deadly pale and motionless. Fear clawed at Catherine’s stomach.

  ‘Is she breathing?’ Bridie whispered.

  Catherine stood, too paralysed to move. Bridie pushed her aside and bent down, putting an ear to Kate’s mouth. A long moment passed. Don ‘t let her die like this!

  ‘She’s breathing, but it’s shallow,’ Bridie said at last. ‘Best call out the doctor.’

  Catherine let out a long breath.

  Bridie picked up the bottle and sniffed it. ‘Mary Mother! She’s been drinking meths.’

  Catherine stared at the crumpled body, the greying, dishevelled hair across a once-pretty face. All the fury and fear of moments before dissolved.

  ‘Oh, Kate,’ she whispered, bending to touch her hair. ‘Oh, our Kate!’

  Chapter 38

  Kate was nursed in bed for several days. The doctor told her she might have done irreparable harm to her stomach and liver from her drinking. Time would tell. When Kate asked if she could have a tot of brandy for medicinal purposes, Catherine was filled with disgust. Her mother seemed bent on self-destruction. But she would not allow Kate to wreck life at The Hurst too.

  Once Kate was up and about again, meddling in the running of the household, Catherine screwed up her courage to confront her.

  ‘I’m making arrangements for you to live elsewhere. The tenants in our old maisonette are moving out at the end of the month. You can move back there.’

  Kate gawped at her in disbelief. ‘You’re hoying me out?’

  Catherine swallowed. ‘I’m providing you with a roof over your
head. It’s more than you deserve after all this carry-on.’

  ‘All on me own?’ Kate said in a fluster. ‘How will I manage?’

  ‘By taking in your own lodgers. I’ve talked it over with Bridie. We’re getting a joiner to put in a couple of false walls so you can have extra rooms. You’ll have to pay your own way; I can’t afford to run two places. Specially with business so bad at The Hurst,’ Catherine added pointedly.

  Kate said stubbornly, ‘And what if I refuse to go?’

  Catherine held her look. ‘Then you’ll have to go back north. I’m not having you living at The Hurst any longer.’

  Kate stormed out of the room.

  Later, she was contrite and begged Catherine to let her stay. ‘I never meant any of those things I said about you and Bridie. I don’t believe them - I just can’t bear you seeing her as your mam, and not me!’ But, encouraged by Bridie, Catherine held firm and went ahead with the alterations to the flat in Laurel Street. In September, she scraped enough money together to cover the first month’s bills and placed an advertisement in the newspaper for custom.

  When the first two enquirers paid over a week’s rent, Catherine ordered her mother to pack.

  ‘I’ll see her settled in,’ Bridie insisted. ‘I don’t trust you not to change your mind at the last minute. A few tears from Kate and you’ll have her back to The Hurst in a trice.’

  So Catherine and Kate exchanged a strained goodbye in the kitchen. Catherine went off to work and felt miserable all day, haunted by her mother’s reproachful look. She worried whether Kate had thrown a tantrum with Bridie about going and whether her lodgers had turned up.

  On her return, Bridie assured her. ‘She’s fine and dandy. Putting on a show for the new boarders. Long may it last.’

  Catherine was full of doubt that it would. Each day she dreaded finding that Kate had returned, drunk and in debt and demanding her ungrateful daughter to take her in. But the days passed and she did not hear from her.

  ‘Maybe I should go down and see how she’s managing,’ Catherine fretted.

  ‘Leave her be,’ Bridie said impatiently. ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then stop fussing. Kate’ll manage. She’ll do it just to spite you.’

  At the end of the month, Catherine came home from work to find Bridie grinning like a Cheshire cat at the kitchen table. She pushed an envelope towards her.

  ‘Have a look in there.’

  Inside were two ten-shilling notes and a scrawled message: ‘Here’s the money I had a lend of. I have got four lodgers. Hope you are well. Kate.’

  Catherine looked over in amazement. ‘She’s doing better than we are!’

  Bridie laughed. ‘Didn’t I tell you? She’s out to prove herself to you. So you can stop worrying - you’ve done the right thing by her.’

  Catherine smiled in relief. ‘Not that she’ll see it that way.’

  Bridie came over and hugged her. ‘Oh, but isn’t it grand without her? Just you, me and Maisie. Promise me you’ll not take her back. I couldn’t bear to see you fading away with the worry again.’

  ‘Oh, I promise,’ Catherine said. ‘Never again.’

  ***

  Winter came, and Catherine and Bridie gradually built up the numbers at The Hurst once more. The roof needed constant repairs and it was a struggle to keep the damp and mould at bay during the cold wet months. The house devoured money like an insatiable beast, and often Catherine wondered why she had bought such a monstrous place.

  ‘You worry too much about things,’ Bridie would chide.

  ‘And you don’t worry enough,’ Catherine retorted on discovering a new patch of crumbling wall in the tower room.

  Bridie, she discovered, was as haphazard in her housekeeping as Kate. She never seemed to be able to keep within the weekly budget, and dismissed Catherine’s attempts to curb her spending with a shrug and a laugh as if it were a joke. To her friend’s annoyance, Catherine offered the loyal Mrs Fairy free board and lodging if she would help with the cooking and housekeeping.

  ‘I can manage fine without that woman huffing and puffing down my neck!’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased with the extra help,’ Catherine said.

  ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’ Bridie reproached.

  ‘It’s too big a job for you to run everything on your own. And Mrs Fairy’s good with Maisie.’

  Bridie was moody for weeks afterwards and Catherine had to tread carefully. Casual comments could be taken as criticism; the slightest attention to Mrs Fairy was seen as favouritism. But at least she did not have to worry about her unstable mother screaming in front of the guests or causing chaos. She was so relieved that the battles with Kate were over that the odd tiff with Bridie was nothing in comparison.

  Months went by without Catherine seeing or hearing from her mother. The lease on the maisonette had been assigned over to Kate, and Catherine took the lack of news to mean that her mother was coping.

  ‘Bad news travels fast,’ Bridie reminded her. ‘If she wants you she knows where to find you.’

  So, with no encouragement from Bridie, Catherine did not make an effort to keep in contact.

  As Christmas approached and Catherine wondered what to do about Kate, Bridie said, ‘She’ll have Davie for company. Spare us a Christmas like last year!’

  Catherine shuddered to think of it. Instead, she sent her mother money in a card. It made her feel less guilty at having a quiet Christmas at The Hurst. There was no sign of Kate at Mass, but a note came in the New Year to wish her well.

  It was well into 1935 before she had further news of her mother.

  ‘Didn’t I run into her down on the seafront buying fish!’ Bridie reported. ‘Maisie saw her first. Weight’s dropped off her.’

  Catherine’s stomach twisted. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Right as rain,’ Bridie assured. ‘Got six lodgers and proud of it.’

  ‘Good,’ Catherine said, her throat feeling tight.

  ‘Asking after you,’ Bridie continued. ‘Says to come for your tea one night. Bring Maisie - have a game of snap. I told her how busy you were and not to expect it.’

  Catherine was grateful. She did not want to visit. She was happy to think that her mother was managing without her but did not want to see her. She had striven hard for peace of mind since the previous terrible year. It had completely drained her of emotion. Once again there was equilibrium in her life. To re-establish contact with Kate would destroy all that.

  Catherine said, ‘Maisie could go on her own - or you could take her.’

  Bridie shrugged and the subject was dropped.

  With spring blossom and the fresh green of early summer leaves, Catherine’s spirits rose. She felt filled with a new energy and optimism. Whenever she had doubts about The Hurst, she only had to go out into its garden to chase them away. She would walk among its trees, touching the rough bark and stand under their shade, mesmerised by the flickering, filtering light. Breathing in the scent of flowers and damp grass after a shower was better than any expensive perfume. For snatched moments, Catherine felt more at peace there than at any time in her life.

  But such times were rare, for she continued to work hard at the laundry and when she came back home, the chores of the boarding house went on until bedtime. As summer wore on, all her plans to hold tennis parties unravelled. There never seemed enough time. She and Bridie played together on occasional Saturday afternoons, challenging some of the lodgers to games of doubles.

  Catherine was surprised Bridie did not seem to mind the lack of social contact.

  ‘It must be dull for you, being stuck here all week long,’ Catherine said. ‘We should make more effort to get out.’

  Bridie pinched her cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me - I l
ove it here. I’ve got you and Maisie and a beautiful home. What more could I want?’

  Still, as the year waned, Catherine felt an increasing need for contact outside the enclosed world of laundry and boarding house. She yearned for more time for reading and learning. She almost envied those far-off days at Harton when she had spent her free time devouring books from the library. When was the last time she had spent a whole evening reading?

  The days shortened and they could no longer play tennis or sit in the garden of an evening. Confined to the house in bad weather, Bridie and Mrs Fairy began to bicker again and pour out their grievances to Catherine on her return from work. Each strove to win control in the kitchen.

  One evening, when Catherine was returning from work wondering what petty wrangling she would find, she spotted a poster in a newsagent’s window. Fencing lessons. She stopped and studied it. One hour a week at a gym in Harcourt Street. For an instant she held a ridiculous thought of herself wielding a sword like one of the Three Musketeers. Madame Clevy had introduced her to the novel by Dumas and she had been captivated by the swashbuckling tale.

  She laughed at the idea, dismissed it and walked home. That night Bridie was in a mood over a burnt cheese sauce that had been left on the stove and ruined a pan. She blamed Mrs Fairy, who indignantly denied it.

  ‘You can’t leave a sauce and go off for a bath,’ the old cook scolded.

  ‘I left it on the hearth,’ Bridie cried.

  ‘You left it on top.’