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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  One summer afternoon, Catherine set out to join Tom at a school cricket match. He would be umpiring and she would have to sit and make light conversation with the other wives. She did not feel at all sociable. A short story had been returned that morning. Maybe she should give up and go back to her painting, be a lady of leisure, the type of wife that would suit Tom.

  As she walked into town in a new summer dress, her resentment grew. Why did a wife always have to bend her life to her husband’s? Why did Tom have the luck of a proper education and not her? She knew she could be a writer, if only she had some guidance. But Tom was a man of numbers and facts; he did not understand the compulsion within her to write.

  By the time she had reached the town centre, Catherine was seething with aggression. Walking past some workmen mending a wall, she felt an overwhelming urge to pick up one of the loose bricks and hurl it through the shop window opposite. She stopped and stared at a brick. Her fists clenched as she fought down the desire to throw it and break something.

  ‘Want to take the brick home, love?’ one of the builders teased.

  Catherine blushed and turned in confusion. She rushed home, appalled to think how her anger had so nearly overtaken her. She wasn’t safe to be out on the streets. Back at The Hurst, she stripped off her fine clothes and pulled on her gardening trousers and shirt. Halfway through digging up a bucketful of carrots, she heard footsteps coming up the drive. Turning, she gasped in surprise.

  ‘Bridie?’

  The red-haired woman strode towards her and gave her a hug. ‘Catherine, you’re so thin. Thought you were a scarecrow standing there! That husband of yours not looking after you?’

  Catherine grimaced, but said nothing. It was so strange seeing Bridie after all this time. She had long stopped feeling angry towards her. If she felt anything it was probably pity.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea or do I have to make my own?’ Bridie teased.

  Catherine nodded and led the way inside. While she fumbled with the tea caddy and warmed the pot, Bridie told her about her years in the army.

  ‘I’ve been back running the boarding house for the past two years.’ She watched Catherine over the rim of her cup. ‘I’m sorry you can’t have children.’

  Catherine jolted. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I get the odd letter from Kate. She told me you’ve had a hard time - I know about the mental hospital.’

  Catherine snapped. ‘I was in a nursing home for my nerves, that’s all.’

  Bridie gave her a disbelieving look. ‘I’m sorry all the same. If I’d known I would have come to see you - tried to help. Obviously that husband of yours is next to useless.’

  Catherine knew she should defend Tom, but suddenly her lips were trembling. She put down her cup and burst into tears. Bridie was round the table in an instant, hugging her in comfort.

  ‘Have a good cry, girl,’ she crooned. ‘Bridie will take care of you. I can see how unhappy you are. I knew that man would bring you nothing but heartache.’

  Catherine was sobbing so hard she could not speak.

  ‘Listen,’ Bridie said softly, ‘I came to tell you I’m selling up the business and going back to Ireland. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll have enough to start our own place over there. You, me and Maisie, just like old times. I’m the only one who’s ever really understood you, Catherine, loved you for who you are. You’ll never be happy as a schoolmaster’s wife, always taking second place. You’re better than that, much better. Come away with me, girl!’

  Catherine’s head spun at the idea. To run away from the drabness of post-war Hastings, from the loneliness of endless solitary hours at The Hurst, from the guilt of failing Tom as a wife - all this was suddenly possible. Bridie was offering escape.

  Before Catherine could answer, the front door banged shut and steps came hurrying down the corridor. Tom burst into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he said breathless. ‘You didn’t come—’

  Bridie stood up but kept her hands on Catherine’s shoulders.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Your wife’s at the end of her tether,’ Bridie said, her look contemptuous. ‘Look what you’ve done to her.’

  ‘Kitty,’ Tom rushed forward, ‘what’s wrong?’

  ‘You’re what’s wrong,’ Bridie answered at once. ‘She’s sick and tired of you. I’ve asked her to go to Ireland with me. She needs someone to take proper care of her.’

  Tom gazed at Catherine, stupefied.

  ‘Is it true?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me you wouldn’t go with that woman.’

  ‘If she’s any sense she will,’ Bridie cried. ‘At least I know how to love her.’

  ‘Love her?’ Tom shouted. ‘You nearly drove her mad.’

  ‘No, that’s what you did!’ Bridie accused.

  Catherine jumped to her feet. ‘Stop it, both of you! I can speak for myself.’ She glared at them. ‘I don’t know what I want to do; I just know I’m not happy. Stop fighting over me like I’m some possession. Neither of you knows the real me.’ She faced Tom. ‘Bridie wants me to be like Maisie - a helpless little girl she can take care of - and you want a middle-class wife who can entertain and not show you up in front of your educated friends. But I’m neither of those things. I’m Kitty McMullen - Kate’s bastard daughter. I feel emotions that no refined lady should feel - anger and passion and hatred. I learnt them on the streets of Jarrow. I understand badness ‘cos I’ve seen and heard it - lived it. I’m not a fit wife for you, Tom,’ she cried. ‘I’ve spent half my life trying to be someone I’m not - and it’s nearly destroyed me!’

  Catherine rushed past him and fled outside. She walked for ages, her direction aimless. What a destructive person she was! She destroyed those who loved her. Yet, with each step she grew more certain that what she had shouted at Tom was the truth. Catherine Cookson, the well-spoken wife of the school teacher, was a myth. Her painfully learnt speech and manners and lofty attempts to improve herself were a veneer. Strip them away and she was still the same wild and frightened child she had always been.

  Evening came before Catherine made her weary way home. To her relief Bridie had gone. She saw a light on in the bedroom and went up to face Tom. He was sitting on the bed, a packed suitcase beside him. On seeing her, he got up and closed the lid.

  ‘I was waiting for you to come back before I left,’ he said, his voice cold.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Catherine stared in alarm.

  ‘Leaving you, Kitty. It’s what you want, isn’t it? You and Bridie.’

  ‘Me and Bridie? Don’t be daft. I was never going to go with her.’

  He turned and fixed her with angry eyes. ‘That’s not what she thinks. You’ve made it perfectly plain you don’t love me. And now I know you loved that woman all the time. How often have you seen her behind my back? What a fool I’ve been to think I could make you happy.’ He yanked the case off the bed.

  ‘Stop it, Tom. You’re frightening me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Today’s the first time I’ve set eyes on Bridie since we got married.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he glared. ‘Bridie said you’ve never stopped loving each other.’

  Catherine cried, ‘And you’d rather believe her than me, would you?’

  Tom pulled a bundle from his jacket pocket. His voice shook with anger. ‘I believe these!’ He thrust them at Catherine. A pile of letters; her letters to Bridie. A grenade lobbed into their midst by a departing Bridie, to blow their marriage to smithereens. Did Bridie think by destroying Tom’s love, she would have no other option but to go running to her? If I can’t have you - he never will - I’ll make sure of that.

  Catherine grabbed Tom’s arm as he pushed past. ‘These don’t mean what you think they mean,’ she gab
bled. ‘They were written years ago. I was lonely—’

  ‘And in love with her,’ Tom said savagely.

  ‘No! I don’t know. More star-struck than in love - like a girl’s crush on someone older. She gave me love and encouragement that I had never had from Kate, and at a time I really needed it.’ Catherine’s look was pleading. ‘But I stopped loving her years ago. It’s you I love, Tom, you. ‘

  He looked at her bewildered. ‘Then what was all that about not wanting to be my wife?’

  ‘I do. But not the way it is now.’

  ‘Then how?’ he shouted. ‘What is it you want, Kitty?’

  ‘I need to be my own person, Tom, not just your wife. But I’m frightened that’s not the woman you want to be married to.’

  He dropped the suitcase, his look desolate. ‘All I’ve ever wanted was you, Kitty. Not a posh Mrs Cookson. I’m not ashamed of who you are or where you come from. I love you for it. Can’t you see that? I love Kitty McMullen from Jarrow. I love Kate’s daughter.’

  Catherine’s throat choked with tears. She reached out and their arms went around each other. Warmth flooded her like a benediction.

  ‘That’s the best thing anyone’s ever said to me,’ she whispered. ‘I love you, Tom. I love you so much it hurts. Please forgive me?’

  His answering hug told her he did.

  Chapter 51

  After the crisis over Bridie, Tom and Catherine grew closer. They talked and read together in the evenings, they gardened side by side. After an operation to remove half Catherine’s womb, they resumed lovemaking. Most of all, Tom encouraged her to write about what she knew. He discovered her descriptions of her grandparents’ kitchen and the places of her childhood.

  ‘You’ve got something here,’ he said excitedly. ‘Write about Jarrow and Shields, Kitty.’

  So Catherine wrote. Every day of the year she wrote. Eventually the scores of pages took the shape of a novel. A story about a beautiful woman nearly ruined by having an illegitimate daughter came pouring out. Except her heroine, Kate Hannigan, was saved by marriage to an honourable man. Through a speaker at the writers’ circle, Catherine secured an agent and shortly afterwards, to her amazed delight, it was accepted for publication.

  She resisted the desire to run into the streets and scream out the news. Once in print, a proud Tom mentioned it to anyone who would listen - from his colleagues to the local butcher. Some people, having read it, looked at her askance.

  ‘ “A bit too brutal for a romance, don’t you think?” ‘ Catherine mimicked a member of the writers’ group to Tom. She laughed shortly. ‘I’m not writing romance - I’m writing about real people, warts and all.’

  Catherine wrote on. Her follow-up novel was rejected and she sank into depression, questioning if she should continue with such gritty subject matter. Tom wouldn’t hear of her changing course.

  ‘You’re right and the publishers are wrong,’ he insisted. ‘Keep at it.’

  At times, the old depression took hold and she wandered around the empty house bereft of ideas. One day, alone at The Hurst, she cried out angrily, ‘If there’s anything there, give me a story!’

  Within an hour, one had come to her, so clear and complete that Catherine was shaken to the core. Had it come from deep within or was Our Lady still watching over her, despite her lapsed faith? She worked on it night and day. The following year, The Fifteen Streets was published; a year after that, Colour Blind. Exiled though she was from Tyneside, the place had never seemed more vivid and alive to her. She wrote about the Edwardian streets she remembered, but was happy to revisit them only in her mind.

  Strangely, Catherine was thinking about Kate when a letter came from Aunt Mary.

  She ran to meet Tom on his way home from school. ‘Kate’s ill,’ she told him in agitation. ‘Our Mary says she’s - she’s - dying.’

  ‘You must go and see her,’ Tom said at once. ‘If you don’t, you’ll never forgive yourself.’

  ‘But what will I say to her after all this time?’ Catherine asked helplessly.

  ‘You’ve never been stuck for words before,’ Tom said drily.

  She held his hand. ‘Please will you come with me?’

  A week later, they were travelling north along the same route as when Catherine had been carrying David. She tried not to think of it. When smoky Tyneside hove into view, Catherine felt her heart lurch. Was it nerves or something deeper? Walking from the station into the narrow streets of Tyne Dock to Kate’s flat, her eyes prickled at the familiar accents and the faded awnings over shops she knew. Feeling tearful, she gripped Tom’s arm for support.

  Aunt Mary let them in. When Catherine saw her mother lying in bed, her bloated face creasing into a smile at her appearance, she burst into tears.

  ‘Haway, hinny and stop your noise,’ Kate chided. ‘I’m not dead yet.’

  Catherine sat down before her knees buckled. Her mother looked so old and helpless, not a threat at all. The gloomy room smelled of decay. She should have brought flowers to brighten it. Why had she not thought to buy any?

  Tom, seeing his wife overcome with emotion, chatted to Kate about the journey. When he asked her about herself, Kate waved at him dismissively.

  ‘Doctor’s making too much of a fuss. Tell me about Kitty’s books.’

  Later, as Kate slept, Mary told them bluntly, ‘She’s got cancer. It’s in her liver. Dropsy and heart trouble too. Doctor says it’s likely she won’t last more than three months - maybes six.’

  Catherine swallowed. ‘Can’t they operate?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘Too far gone. She’s puffed up like a balloon. Doesn’t complain much, but you can tell she’s in pain.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘Doctor says she should be somewhere more healthy - where the air’s cleaner. Nowt can cure her, but at least it would help her breathing. She gets that short of breath, can’t make it down the stairs any longer. And I’m too old to be running up here all day to see to her.’

  Catherine looked at Tom. His eyes were full of compassion, ‘She could come and stay with us,’ he said quietly.

  Catherine was filled with gratitude. Despite Kate’s past treatment of him, Tom was willing to forgive and take her in. Catherine knew in her heart that that was what they should do - offer the dying Kate a home - but she did not have the courage to do it without him.

  She touched his face gently. ‘Thank you.’

  Kate visibly revived at the news, but the doctor was dubious she could make the long journey. In the end, she was taken by ambulance to the station and put on a sleeper to London using the luggage hoist. When Mary cried, Kate told her not to be so soft.

  In London, she was hoisted into another ambulance across the city to the Hastings train, where a third ambulance awaited. After a gruelling night and day of travel, Catherine and Tom got Kate safely to The Hurst.

  They brought down a bed and put it in the cook’s sitting room.

  ‘You’ll get the warmth from the kitchen in here,’ Catherine told her, tucking her in. ‘Tom’s heating you up a bowl of soup.’

  Kate grabbed feebly at her arm. Her eyes glittered.

  ‘Ta for doing this, hinny,’ she croaked.

  Catherine shrugged awkwardly. ‘It’s Tom you should thank - it was his idea.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s your doing.’ Kate’s chin wobbled. ‘Oh lass, I’ve come home!’

  ***

  Kate did not die as soon as expected.

  ‘It’s your skill as a nurse has kept her alive,’ Tom said.

  ‘Her sheer bloody-mindedness,’ Catherine joked.

  After a year, Kate was able to take short walks around the garden and help with the cooking. She lost her bloated look and stayed sober, for there was no one to buy her drink. Yet keeping The Hurst r
unning, looking after Kate and trying to write was proving too much for Catherine. Her own health was deteriorating again.

  Tom took the decision that they should move to somewhere more manageable. When they discovered a charming mock-Tudor villa with a sunny garden, Catherine found it easier to leave her old home than she had imagined.

  ‘It’s just bricks and mortar, nowt else,’ Kate said, excited about the move.

  She chose a room on the ground floor with a view onto the garden through French windows. Once they were settled in, Tom came home with a frisky terrier.

  ‘Been abandoned in the school yard - no one wants it.’

  Catherine patted it in sympathy. ‘How could no one want you, eh?’ She fell instantly and besottedly in love with the noisy, affectionate dog. He raced around the house like an irrepressible child, which was what he became in Catherine’s eyes. They called him Bill for no particular reason and even Kate spoilt him with titbits from the table.

  At times, Catherine balked at being so tied to her mother. She and Tom hardly ever went out alone, for Kate could not reach the bathroom without help and they feared she would fall if left unattended. Gradually she began to fade again, but rather than accept her restrictions she railed against them, growing more crotchety by the day. Catherine relented and allowed her mother a glass of beer at night to ease the pain.

  Some days, Kate would sit happily in a chair, slowly reading one of Catherine’s books, Bill lying in her lap. Maggie Rowan and A Grand Man had recently been published. On others she could not rise from bed, and snapped at Catherine about the food or being left for more than ten minutes.

  The doctor warned Catherine to prepare herself for her mother’s death.

  ‘I could arrange for nursing care - give you a break,’ he suggested.

  ‘No.’ Catherine was adamant. ‘I’ll nurse her myself. She’ll only give some poor nurse the run-around.’