The atmosphere between them was strained all evening. Finally, when all the men had been settled in their rooms, Catherine confronted him.
‘I didn’t invite Bridie here, so why are you punishing me for it?’
Tom eyed her. ‘She’ll always be here - coming between us. I can see that now. You can go months without seeing her, but the minute you do, you’re a different person. It’s like she has some sort of hold over you. What is it between you and that woman, Kitty?’
Catherine went hot. ‘There’s nothing between us!’
Tom shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s why you won’t marry me. All those excuses about the priest - it’s not him - it’s Bridie McKim. If she says you’re not to marry me then you won’t.’
‘That’s not true,’ Catherine protested.
Tom’s look was disbelieving.
‘No! I’m frightened of her. She came here today with a gun, Tom, making threats. I’m scared of what she might do to you.’
‘Don’t be melodramatic.’
‘I’m not. You’ve no idea how jealous she can be.’ Catherine was desperate for him to understand. Should she tell him about the letters?
He said in a low voice, ‘I think you’re scared of being happy. You’re scared of letting go and trusting a future you can’t control. Just because your mother made a mess of love and marriage, doesn’t mean that you will, Kitty.’ He looked at her with regret. ‘It’s such a waste. We would have been happy together. I know I’ll never find another love like ours.’
Catherine stared at him in panic. ‘Don’t talk like that, as if it’s all over. We’ve still got each other - we are together, Tom.’
‘Not for much longer. The school’s being evacuated - inland to St Albans.’
Catherine’s heart thumped. ‘When?’ she whispered.
‘Two weeks,’ he said flatly. ‘I’ll be gone in two weeks.’
That night, she found it impossible to sleep. Getting up, she slipped outside into the midsummer night. Despite the blackout, it was only half dark, a faint blush of light illuminating the sighing trees. Perhaps she was foolish to be out on such a night that might bring enemy bombers, but she was too restless. Catherine sat under her favourite oak that had not been bulldozed by the builder. The half-built villa on the sold-off grounds stood gaunt as a ruin. Next to it, The Hurst’s massive gothic bulk was like a sleeping beast.
Catherine pressed her back into the rough shelter of the tree. The future was so uncertain now: rumours of defeat in Belgium and Holland were rife. British troops were in retreat and it was said that the smoke and fire from German bombing could be seen and heard from the Kent coast. Invasion, so unthinkable a year ago, now seemed a terrifying possibility. And here they were, sitting on the edge of England. If France was to fall. . .
Soon Tom would be gone for good. She and her patients might be evacuated too. The Hurst might be bombed and all her years of toil here would be for nothing. How ridiculous she had been, holding so much store by wealth and possessions. It all seemed so petty when there were others fighting for their lives just a short way across the English Channel.
None of it matters. Only love and being loved.
She sat up abruptly. The branches of the oak rustled in the night wind. It was as if the tree had spoken. She pressed her hands to its gnarled bark and felt comforted. This oak had seen people and wars come and go, but had still remained. She was suffused with courage and renewed determination.
‘Please be here when I come back,’ Catherine whispered and kissed its cold roughness.
She went back to bed, resolved what to do.
Catherine was woken by Rita banging on her door. She had slept in late. With a start she leapt out of bed, fumbling for her clothes. Opening the blind, she saw Tom walking off down the drive. She had missed him at breakfast.
In a panic, she rushed for the stairs, ignoring Rita’s complaints about helping lift one of the men. Her hair a riot of unbrushed curls and her clothes half-buttoned, she dashed out of the front door and down the steps.
‘Tom!’ she cried. He was at the gate and did not turn round. ‘Stop, Tom!’ she yelled louder, racing after him. Just as he turned into the street, he caught sight of her. He stared at her half-dressed state in alarm.
‘Tom,’ she panted, ‘wait. I’ve something to say. About yesterday and Bridie.’
‘Not now, Kitty,’ he said in exasperation.
‘She’s not the least bit important,’ she ploughed on. ‘None of this is.’ She waved at the house behind. ‘Only one thing matters. You and me. You’re all I care about, Tom Cookson.’
She faced him, eyes welling up with tears.
‘Oh, Kitty,’ he said, his voice full of sadness, ‘why have you waited all this time to say it? It’s too late. I have to go away and there’s nothing I can do about it now.’
Catherine started to shake. She could barely speak. She knew if she let this moment go, she would regret it for the rest of her life. She cared nothing for the people walking past them, staring in curiosity. It was just her and Tom on the pavement, and their future hanging on a thread.
‘Saturday,’ she croaked. ‘What are you doing on Saturday?’
He frowned. ‘Lessons in the morning, cricket match in the afternoon. You know all that.’
‘Let’s get married,’ she blurted out, ‘on Saturday - before cricket.’
He gawped at her. ‘Married? You really want to marry me?’
Catherine nodded and gulped back tears.
‘Even if it’s not in church?’ he asked.
‘Anywhere. Just as long as we can be together.’ She held out her arms.
‘Oh, Kitty!’ he said, his face breaking into a grin. He grabbed her to him and kissed her full on the lips in front of a startled passer-by.
‘We’ll do it then?’ Catherine gasped in excitement.
‘Yes.’ Tom was adamant. ‘I might even cancel the cricket.’
She laughed and hugged him again, wondering why it had taken her so long to see where happiness lay.
Chapter 45
Catherine and Tom were to be married quietly on Saturday, 1st June in St Mary Star-of-the-Sea. Father John relented at the final hour, agreeing to marry the couple if Tom promised to bring their children up in the Catholic faith. Catherine had gone to the priest threatening to marry in the registry office and, seeing how determined she was, her priest had come up with the compromise.
Their friend Major Holloway was to give her away and the Townsends and a colleague of Tom’s were invited as witnesses. It was too rushed to alert anyone else. Tom sent a letter to his mother and Kate was notified by telegram. With war-time travel difficult there was no possibility of them attending.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Tom said, happy to avoid a fuss. ‘Just making you Mrs Cookson is all I care about.’
Catherine’s heart swelled at his words. At last she would have a name to call her own, untainted by the past. But right up until the day, she was tense with fear. Tom did not know that she had also begged Kate to send her birth certificate. Catherine did not know whether her mother would even send it, for in it her shameful illegitimacy would be written for all to see.
But the certificate arrived on the Friday with Kate’s blessing. Catherine was stunned when she read it. Kate had recorded herself as Mrs Davies and the father as Alexander Davies, Commission Agent. She sat down, winded at the bare-faced lie. Kate must have risked imprisonment to pass herself off as a married woman. But to what gain? And why had her mother never mentioned it to her before now? To think of the lengths she had gone to not to produce her birth certificate in the past! She could have lost her job at Tendring because of it.
Oh, Kate! Catherine thought of her mother with a mixture of anger and admiration. How strange it was to think of herself as Catherine D
avies. She touched her father’s name on the faded document. But he was as elusive as ever. Catherine Davies was as fictitious as this piece of paper and she was as eager to be rid of her as she was Kitty McMullen.
The day of the wedding, Catherine dressed in her best dress and high heels. Hot day though it was, she put on the fur stole Tom had bought her as a wedding present, determined to feel her most glamorous, despite the low-key event. Tom went off to teach the morning’s lessons and meet her at the church.
All morning, she was tense with anxiety that somehow Bridie would get to hear of the wedding and try to stop it. She imagined her storming to the house and taking her captive, or blocking the steps to the church waving the love letters in her face. Bridie would get there ahead of her and shoot Tom dead at the door.
‘Get this down you.’ Mrs Fairy pushed a teaspoon of brandy into her mouth. ‘You’re shaking like a leaf. Need a bit colour in your cheeks for your wedding day.’
‘I still don’t believe it’s going to happen,’ Catherine confided in the old cook. ‘I’m frightened something—’
Mrs Fairy gave her shoulder a squeeze.
‘Stop worrying for once and enjoy yourself. It’s a day to remember for the rest of your life.’
As she spoke, the doorbell went. Catherine jumped.
‘I’ll go,’ Mrs Fairy said firmly, and lumbered out of the room.
Catherine stood in the passageway listening to the raised voices. Her heart banged in shock. It was Bridie.
‘I must speak to her - let me in!’
‘She’s not here.’
‘I know she is. I’ve been watching the house. She’s not left it. I just want to speak to her. You can’t stop me!’
Catherine heard them tussle and shout, Mrs Fairy panting. She must not cower like a coward while Bridie got the better of the old woman. She was going to be married. She had nothing to fear. Catherine marched down the hallway to the door.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Fairy.’ Catherine launched herself between them and pushed Bridie off. ‘Why are you here, Bridie?’ She gave her most challenging look while her insides turned to water.
Bridie was dressed in uniform, her red hair tied back, accentuating her high cheekbones and blazing blue eyes. She looked wild, beautiful, mad.
‘Tell me you’re not going to marry him - that little runt.’
‘I’m marrying Tom,’ Catherine said sharply. ‘You can wish me well or not, I really don’t care. But you’ll not stop me.’
Bridie seized hold of her and shook her hard. ‘I will. I’ve got those letters with me. And I’ve got my gun.’
‘I’m going to ring for the police,’ Mrs Fairy wheezed in agitation.
‘She’s lying,’ Catherine said in disdain. ‘Don’t let her frighten you.’
Maddened by her calmness, Bridie fumbled for her revolver. She shook it unsteadily. Catherine jerked backwards.
‘Mrs Fairy, get inside and bolt the door behind you!’ When the woman hesitated, Catherine shoved her inside. ‘Do as I say!’
She faced Bridie, trying to mask her terror. ‘I’m going now and I want you to stand out of my way.’
Bridie’s eyes glinted with furious tears. ‘I won’t let him have you. He’s not worthy of your love.’ She waved the gun.
‘Tom is worth ten of me,’ Catherine said quietly. ‘Shooting me won’t stop me loving him. I’ll always be his, whether you let us marry today or not. I’ll never be yours, Bridie. Not in the way you want. Never.’
She held her breath. Bridie looked at her with such hatred that Catherine knew she was going to die. Here she was, standing in the sunshine, dressed up to the nines, half an hour from being married and her best friend was going to shoot her. It all seemed so ridiculous, so pointless, so darkly funny. But Catherine knew if she laughed at that instant, Bridie would fire the gun.
Nothing happened. They held each other’s look. Bridie still gripped the revolver but with less conviction.
Slowly, Catherine walked forward. Their shoulders brushed as she passed. Down the steps. Her heart boomed like a bass drum. Surely Bridie must hear her fear, smell it on her person? She kept putting one foot in front of the other, hardly daring to breathe. She was halfway down the drive and still alive. If Bridie shot her in the back from this range, she might survive. Her steps quickened. From here she could run into the street and scream for help. At the gate, she wondered if Bridie could shoot after all. Perhaps there were no bullets in the gun. Perhaps she had never been issued with bullets and it was all a bluff.
Turning into the street, Catherine began to run, not daring to look back. She ran, sobbing with relief until her lungs were fit to burst. Slowing, she walked through the town, mingling with strangers, dabbing at her tear-stained face, trying to compose her shattered nerves.
She was five minutes late. Tom was at the top of the church steps anxiously looking out for her. She gave him a huge smile.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be inside?’ she panted.
‘Thought you’d changed your mind,’ he said with a bashful grin.
‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.’ Her laughter was strained. Not even wild soldiers.
The service was brief, almost hurried. Father John could not hide his awkwardness in having to marry Catherine to an Anglican. Although Tom showed no signs of being offended, Catherine felt annoyed and hurt on his behalf. What should have been a high moment of fulfilment was reduced to a gabble of words and a hasty blessing.
Perhaps it was because of her overwrought state, but it was easier to blame the priest for the joyless service. Still, Catherine put on a brave face for the others and pretended that all was well. At last it was over. She was married to Tom. Bridie had not stopped them. She would never be alone again. They came out of the church grinning at Major Holloway’s box camera, arm in arm. Catherine was touched to see some of Tom’s pupils had turned up to wish them well.
Her dread returned at the thought of what they might find at The Hurst. The guests were to share a sandwich lunch before the Townsends took the newly weds to the station. Tom had booked a brief honeymoon, with a couple of nights in London and a visit to his family in Essex.
Thankfully, all was calm at the house. Mrs Fairy whispered to her that Bridie had sat on the steps crying her eyes out for ten minutes, refused a cup of tea and then left.
‘I was all for ringing the police, but she promised she never intended to harm you. Told her to clear off and not come back.’ Mrs Fairy patted her hand. ‘Still, you’ll be leaving Hastings soon and you’ll not have to worry about her again.’
Tom wanted to know what they were gossiping about. Catherine swung her arm possessively through his.
‘Nothing my husband needs to know about,’ she joked, delighting in making him blush.
She was glad when it was time to catch the train and wave their friends away. They sat close, holding hands, revelling in being alone together at last. Tom had arranged a theatre trip for the evening and Catherine felt light-headed at the thought of parading round the big city on the arm of her handsome new husband.
But halfway to the capital, the train stopped at a crowded station. Scores of bedraggled soldiers squeezed on. Their clothes were damp, their exhausted faces unshaven. A strange smell hung about them of sweat and dirt and smoke. Catherine clutched Tom’s hand tighter, fearful of what it might mean. The train finally pulled away, but the crowded carriage was eerily silent. One man caught her staring at him.
‘Where have you come from?’ Catherine whispered.
‘France,’ he said. She waited for him to say more but he didn’t.
She felt compelled to ask, ‘Is it very - bad?’
He hung his head, too overcome to speak.
An older man next to him said wearily, ‘Were lucky to get out. Jerries everywhere. Took us days to get
to the coast. That many refugees on the road.’ His eyes looked haunted. ‘Killing the lot - every bugger in their way - even the bairns. Bloody mass murder.’ He didn’t apologise for his language. Catherine recognised his accent as North-Eastern, possibly Sunderland.
Her eyes stung with tears; she felt overwhelmed by what these men must have been through. Glancing around she saw how some of them were bandaged, their uniforms torn. They were still in shock at their defeat and utterly spent. Anything she said would be quite inadequate.
‘You’re - very - brave lads,’ she whispered.
The older soldier studied her a moment, then shook his head. ‘No lass, not us. It’s the lads we left behind covering our backs are the brave ones.’
She saw the glint of tears in his eyes and looked away, fearful of bursting into tears at their plight. The next time she glanced over, he was asleep on a comrade’s shoulder. No one spoke again. She exchanged silent looks with Tom and felt his discomfort. Did he feel guilt at sitting there among men his own age who had narrowly escaped death while they had been marrying? It left the pair of them subdued that evening.
London felt edgy. It was teeming with people in uniform, boarded-up buildings and queues outside food shops. There was a desperate gaiety about the theatregoers that jarred after the train journey. Newspaper billboards confirmed the stark news that the evacuation of troops from Dunkirk had begun.
Their landlady pointed out the tube station they should go to should the sirens go off.
‘Thinking of shutting up the place and going to stay with my sister in Worthing,’ she told them glumly. ‘You’ll likely be my last customers till this war’s done with.’
They retreated to their dingy room, infected by the woman’s gloominess.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ Tom beckoned.
Catherine looked anxiously at the faded green counterpane that Tom was turning back. He caught her look.
‘I’ll change in the bathroom down the hall if you like.’
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 121