She determined that the next time she saw William, she would be the one to speak first. The following week, the weather played a mischievous part in her plans. The hot spell of early June, that had seen the strikers wandering the fields beyond Jarrow and enjoying the unaccustomed fresh air, broke. On the morning of the eighteenth, it grew still and airless, the heat in the church hall oppressive. They laboured on over the midday meal, but as the helpers cleared up in the early afternoon, it grew so dark they had to light the lamps. Rose felt edgy, but she had seen William go to fetch water and so refused Father O’Brien’s attempts to get her to hurry home.
William appeared carrying two pails of water he had fetched from the pump. ‘Storm’s nearly here,’ he said quietly to no one in particular. Rose darted forward and helped take one of the buckets.
‘Be good to clear the air.’ She smiled at him, her hot face burning even more fiercely at his arrival.
‘Think you should get off home,’ he said in concern. ‘Looks as black as night over Newcastle way.’
‘Don’t really want to gan out there when it’s so dark,’ Rose answered. ‘Think I’ll stop till it’s over.’
He looked at her directly for the first time. ‘I’ll walk you up the hill if you like,’ he offered.
Rose’s heart thumped in shock. She felt suddenly tongue-tied again, but forced herself to reply before he took her silence as rejection.
‘Aye, please,’ she answered.
They smiled at each other bashfully and then Rose was pulling on her shawl in a hurry.
As they reached the top of the street, lightning streaked across the sky to the west, followed swiftly by a low rumble of thunder. Rose knew that they would get caught in the rain long before she reached home, and glanced back at the large church.
‘Grand, isn’t it?’ William followed her look. ‘My father helped to build it when we first came to Jarrow. It’s more special being built by ordinary men, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, it’s beautiful,’ Rose agreed, amazed at this sudden burst of conversation. ‘Do you think we should turn back?’
William looked at the brooding sky overhead. It was an unnatural green. The town had suddenly emptied and the streets were eerily quiet.
‘Let’s hurry,’ he decided. Rose nodded, unsure if he was just keen to get the job of taking her home over, or whether it meant something more.
As they made their way through the dense streets away from the river, lightning flashed again and the thunder grew louder. Minutes later, slow fat drops of rain began to splash around them. Within seconds, rain was falling from the sky as if a sluice had been opened, pounding the cobbles around them and soaking their clothes. Rose slipped, but William instantly put out a hand to catch her and she grasped it in delight.
Hand in hand they ran and slithered along the road, laughing out loud at their folly as the thunder boomed overhead like cannon-fire. As the streets thinned out into rows of cottages and the roads turned to tracks, they soon became bogged down in a squelching sea of mud. Then the rain turned abruptly to hailstones, huge balls of ice that cut at their bare faces and hands, and made it impossible to see where they were going. All at once, William stopped and pointed to a small wooden hut on the edge of rough ground that marked the pull uphill to the McConnells’ smallholding.
‘Let’s gan in there!’ he shouted over the din of the storm.
‘It’s a pigeon loft!’ Rose cried in distaste.
‘I’ve nowt against pigeons, if they don’t mind us,’ William replied, and pulled her after him.
Rose laughed, not caring how bedraggled or mud-spattered she looked, just giddy with the adventure. Lifting the latch quickly, he pushed her inside first. There was a trill of protest and a flapping of wings in the semi-dark, but they sank on to the dry ground thankfully.
As they regained their breath, Rose rubbed at her sodden hair with her shawl and patted her stinging face. ‘I’m sorry. This is all my fault.’
‘No, we should have stopped in the church like you said.’ William was generous. ‘It’s just...’
Rose detected something in his voice. ‘Just what?’ she asked, curious. Even in the gloom she could tell he was blushing furiously.
‘I wanted the excuse to walk you home,’ William admitted softly.
Rose’s pulse quickened. ‘You did?’ she gasped. On impulse she put out her hand and found his. ‘I wanted you to, an’ all. I didn’t mind how much of a soaking I got.’
They both laughed in bashful delight and she felt him squeeze her hand. His shyness seemed to evaporate in the dark shed and they chatted happily as the birds cooed around them and the hail drummed noisily on the roof. They swapped stories about their families and people they knew around Jarrow. She made him laugh with tales of the characters she met while selling her vegetables and he talked of his hopes for a better life once the strike was over.
‘I’ve no time to myself,’ he said ruefully, ‘just all day working at the mill. But once we’ve won the battle over working hours I’ll have more time for other things.’
‘Like what?’ Rose probed.
‘Like ganin’ to watch the rowing, or helping at St Bede’s - the things I’ve been able to do these past few weeks since the strike began - but to do them without the worry of how we’re going to get through the week without pawning Mam’s china and Dad’s best suit.’ She listened to the eagerness in his voice as he talked of a brighter future. ‘When my apprenticeship’s over, I’ll have a good skilled job at the steelworks. It’s what working men deserve. We’re the ones who put in all the hard graft every day; it’s only fair we get a decent share of the bosses’ profits.’
Rose had hoped for a more romantic answer, but was prepared to be patient. They might be too young to start courting, yet Rose knew she had found the lad she wanted. He was hard-working and ambitious, gentle in manner but quietly determined. He talked with the knowledge and fluency of someone who was educated, and to top it all, he was a devout Catholic and good-looking into the bargain.
Rose was the first to notice that the storm had subsided and that bright chinks of light were cutting into their shelter. But she said nothing, not wanting to stop William’s chatter now he had started. Only later, when he began to sneeze and they both felt chilled in their sodden clothing, did they stir.
‘Haway, it’s time I got you home,’ he said, helping Rose to her feet.
They emerged from the hut into bright sunshine, yet the air was still cold from the freak icy storm. As they hurried uphill and the McConnells’ home came into view, William retreated into his usual reserve. They arrived to find Rose’s parents in bad temper and standing outside surveying the damage. The summer vegetables had taken a terrible battering and two windows had been smashed by hail. Her mother took one look at Rose’s dirty, soaking dress and shrieked.
‘Rose Ann! You look like you’ve been dragged through the midden! Where’ve you been? I thought you were safe in the church. What’s the meaning of all this?’ she demanded, staring suspiciously at the pale-faced youth at her side. ‘You’re the Fawcetts’ lad, aren’t you?’
‘William,’ he nodded. ‘Sorry to worry you, Mrs McConnell,’ he answered politely. ‘I offered to see Rose home but the storm came on that bad, we took shelter till it was over.’
Mr McConnell shouted over. ‘She knows the way home without you having to show her.’
‘I was frightened of the storm,’ Rose muttered. Her father snorted in disbelief.
‘Get yourself inside and change out of that dress before you catch your death,’ her mother fussed. ‘It was good of you to take care of her, William. Will you come in and dry off?’
By now, Maggie and Lizzie had appeared to stare at him with interest. Rose knew he would refuse.
‘I can see Mr McConnell needs a hand fixing up that fence,’ he replied. ‘I’m handy
with a hammer.’ He strode over to Rose’s father and picked up a plank of wood before anyone could argue. The older man grunted in acceptance of the offer and in silence they set about repairing the storm-damaged plot. Rose was full of admiration at the way William had effortlessly gained her father’s approval, but was disappointed at the end of the afternoon when William again refused to enter the house.
‘Better be off,’ he said quickly, and she only had time for a brief wave from the doorway before he turned and hurried away down the hill. He looked tired and chilled, and there was no hint of the warm intimacy that they had shared a few hours ago. Rose wondered anxiously if he had found their home too coarse, or her sisters too rude in their giggling inquisitiveness. She determined that she would find a way to speak to him again soon.
But she developed a cold after the drenching and her mother kept her confined to the house for several days. Eagerly, Rose hurried to St Bede’s once her feverish head had cleared. To her dismay there was no sign of William, not even at Mass on Sunday. In alarm she sought out Florrie.
‘Would you like to go for a walk this afternoon?’ Rose asked tentatively. ‘We could go up the fields at the back of ours.’
Florrie looked pale and tired. ‘I don’t think so...”
‘We could paddle in the stream,’ Rose urged. She was determined to get Florrie on her own and find out more about her elusive brother.
But Florrie seemed distant. She shook her head. ‘Not today. It’s too hot and the walk’s too far.’
Rose looked at her in concern. ‘Are you sickening for some’at?’
Florrie shrugged.
‘Is that what’s wrong with your brother?’ Rose blurted out. ‘Is he ill?’ She flushed at Florrie’s look. ‘I just wondered, him not being here. It’s just he’s always here. And he was kind to me the other day - walking me home in the storm.’
‘William’s been poorly ever since,’ Florrie told her bluntly. ‘He came back in a terrible state - couldn’t stop shivering.’
‘How poorly?’ Rose asked in alarm.
‘Very,’ Florrie said shortly. ‘Head’s as hot as a furnace - and he’s got a bad cough. Mam’s frightened it might be pneumonia, but we can’t afford to call out the doctor.’
Rose saw the tears welling in Florrie’s eyes. ‘I feel terrible,’ Rose gasped. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Nothing,’ Florrie replied, turning away.
‘Please!’ Rose insisted. ‘I’ll bring round some veg - make a warming soup. Mam’s good at making remedies for all sorts. Me granny taught her.’
‘Father won’t accept charity,’ Florrie told her bleakly.
‘Not charity - just helping out friends,’ Rose said. ‘It’s the least I can do. William only caught a chill because of me. I’ll come round this afternoon.’ She hurried after her mother and sisters before Florrie could protest.
Later, with her parents’ agreement, Rose took a basket of produce down to the Fawcetts in James Terrace. She was curious to see the house, for she had never been invited inside, despite her friendship with Florrie. Mr Fawcett was genial enough, but Mrs Fawcett was always distant in manner and spoke with an accent quite foreign to Tyneside. But instinct told Rose that she would have to impress this sharp-featured woman and she had spent half an hour scrubbing the soil from under her nails and from the grooves of her calloused hands. Overawed for a moment by the grandeur of the whitened front step and gleaming brass door knob, Rose rubbed her boots on the back of her legs before knocking.
Florrie came to the door and hesitated before letting her in. ‘You’ll not be able to stay long,’ she said, with a hasty glance up and down the street. Rose had the uncomfortable feeling that the girl did not want her to be seen entering their house.
‘I can’t stop more than a few minutes any road,’ she answered to save face.
Through an open door she could see a neat parlour with a carpet and a piano in the corner. Mr Fawcett was dozing in an armchair by the unlit fire. Florrie whispered for her to follow. She took her into the kitchen. It was orderly but sparse, with a meagre fire burning in the grate and no smell of cooking from the well-polished stove. Two pairs of working boots stood gleaming but idle on the hearth like soldiers waiting for action.
‘Just put the basket on the table,’ Florrie said as if talking to a servant.
Rose pursed her lips as she plonked down her offering. ‘Where’s your mam?’
‘Not feeling very well - she’s resting,’ Florrie said, her fair face blushing easily, reminding Rose of William. They looked at each other awkwardly. Rose took her time unloading the basket, thinking that Mrs Fawcett had looked perfectly well to her at Mass that morning. Was the woman avoiding her because she blamed her for William’s illness?
Rose took off her shawl and hung it over a chair.
‘What are you doing?’ Florrie asked tensely.
‘Going to help you prepare these onions and carrots for a canny pot of broth. Ma’s put in a nice ham knuckle. We’ll need to stoke up the fire a bit, mind.’
‘No!’ Florrie said in alarm. ‘I can manage. We’ve already eaten, so we’ll keep this for tomorrow. Thank you.’
Rose was baffled and a little hurt by her friend’s frosty attitude. She had been looking forward to them making the soup together and chatting about William.
‘Is there any chance . . . ? Could I... er - see your brother?’ She tried to hide her embarrassment.
Florrie looked scandalised. ‘Oh, no, you can’t go upstairs. I mean he’s much too poorly to have visitors. At least at the moment. Maybe when he’s on his feet again. . .’
‘Aye, of course,’ Rose said, feeling foolish for having asked. Suddenly she wanted to get out of this unwelcoming house as quickly as possible. ‘Well, I’ll be off then.’ She put on her shawl. ‘I hope William’s better soon. You’ll let me know if there’s anything else we can do? Ma and Da are only too pleased to help out,’ Rose added pointedly.
‘Thank you, but I’m sure we’ll manage,’ Florrie replied.
Rose noticed for the first time how her friend lifted her chin haughtily and remembered her father’s comment about the Fawcetts looking down their long noses at the likes of them. She felt sudden annoyance. She came from a respectable family and was here to help them out, not the other way round. Having airs and graces and living in a posh house in James Terrace boiled down to nothing when there was a strike on and not enough food on the table. It was then that friendship and neighbourliness counted for everything.
But maybe Florrie did not even see her as a friend, just someone she knew from St Bede’s? Rose realised she was always the one who approached Florrie first, never the other way round. What did their friendship amount to? A few minutes of chatter at church and someone to play with on rare social outings. Occasional titbits of ribbon bestowed on her with the showiness of a queen to a humble servant. And she had been so grateful! Now Rose felt only humiliation.
Quickly she grabbed the empty basket and marched out of the kitchen. Turning at the front door, Rose said in a loud voice, ‘You’ll tell William I was asking after him, won’t you?’
Florrie nodded, looking flustered, and glanced into the parlour to see if her father had been disturbed. Rose lingered on the doorstep, perversely enjoying the girl’s discomfort. ‘And please tell Mrs Fawcett I’m sorry to have missed her - and hope she’s better soon an’ all.’
Florrie nodded vigorously, while trying to edge her out of the door. As soon as she was clear of the step, the door was closed behind her. Rose stepped on to the hot pavement and turned to glance at the upstairs windows, wondering if William lay behind one of them. There was a blind pulled down at the smaller window above the door. Just as she was turning away, she saw the lace curtain at the larger window lift a fraction. For a brief second, she saw the becapped head of Mrs Fawcett staring down at her, th
en the curtain was quickly dropped back into place.
Rose flushed furiously. She was not ill or resting; that woman had been hiding upstairs all the time! Hurrying up the street she felt waves of anger surge through her at the Fawcetts’ rudeness. It was quite plain that they did not want to be seen associating with a common labouring family like the McConnells, let alone receive help from them. They had done everything to discourage her, apart from throw the vegetables back in her face.
Rose fumed all the way home at their treatment of her and the slight to her hard-working and upright family. It was painfully obvious that the Fawcetts would not see her as a suitable match for their only son. She had been mad to entertain such a dream. As she neared home, Rose began to doubt William’s feelings for her. All he had done was offer to walk her home in a storm. He had been polite and friendly, but then he was like that with everyone - it was in his nature.
She was sure he would not have been so begrudging of her gifts and help, had he known of them. But that did not mean he would cause upset with his parents by courting her in earnest when they were a little older. It might never have crossed his mind to court her, and even if it had, he probably did not look on her as a suitable match either. By the time Rose had toiled up the hill and reached home, she felt the hopelessness of her situation.
Ever since she was a small girl watching the wedding of Lord Ravensworth’s daughter, she had harboured dreams of a fairytale marriage that would lift her from the drudgery of manual work on her parents’ smallholding. Did her mother ever regret leaving Ravensworth to marry her father and live in the town? Rose thought how different life would have been had she stayed - how different for all of them had her mother persuaded her father to return to Ravensworth when they were younger. She still had a vivid memory of children playing in sunny fields around Lamesley, and her granny ruing the day her headstrong daughter chose to follow McConnell into ‘the jaws of Hell’. When she looked at her mother she saw a woman already worn out before she was forty. Rose wanted more from life than that. But with heavy heart she realised that William Fawcett was beyond her reach. She would have to lower her expectations and look elsewhere.
The Jarrow Lass Page 4
