Banging through the gate, she caught sight of her sisters running around and playing with a skipping rope.
‘Haway, Rose! Come and join in,’ shouted Maggie.
‘You take this end and I’ll jump in the middle!’ cried Lizzie.
Rose grinned at them, dumping her basket quickly by the fence. She would forget about lads for a while and be content with her sisters’ company. When friends turned out to be fickle, she could always rely on family, Rose thought gratefully.
Chapter 4
1877
Rose jostled with Maggie for a place in front of the cracked mirror. For this special occasion she wore her hair tied up and caught in a chignon as she had noticed fashionable women doing. The girls had spent the last week adapting two hand-me-down dresses of their mother’s - coarse linen, but better than the plain woollen skirts and sacking aprons that they wore all day in the field.
‘Let me see!’ Maggie cried impatiently. ‘Does this bonnet suit me?’
Rose surveyed her. Today her sister looked pretty, her face flushed with excitement at the thought of the McMullen wedding. Too often in recent times, Maggie had looked pinched and grey-faced under a large man’s cap and a moth-eaten shawl that had belonged to their grandmother.
‘You look bonny as can be!’ Rose encouraged, retying the ribbon for her so that the bow framed her cheek.
‘Can’t wait to see Lizzie,’ Maggie said in excitement. ‘Do you think she’ll bring us some’at from Shields? Like that glass necklace she bought for your birthday?’
Rose touched the coloured beads at her neck and smiled. ‘Maybes she will. It’ll just be grand to see her again.’
It seemed an age since their sister had gone into service. Rose knew that Lizzie did not like living away from home, but she seldom grumbled about the foreman from the chemical works for whom she worked. No doubt it was to stop her family worrying, Rose thought, for there had been too much worry and distress these past two years. What terrible times!
For a while, their world had seemed more secure, after the lengthy strike five years ago. Despite the shipbuilders and bosses trying to bring in blackleg labour from abroad, they had finally capitulated and introduced the nine-hour working day. Rose had watched the riverside grow ever more crowded, with larger ships being launched, churches being built and tenement houses mushrooming. Their own market garden had prospered and they had had money to spend on going to the fair during Newcastle’s Race Week, on new hats and even a sewing machine.
Their mother had been suspicious of such an innovation, but the girls had revelled in making their own clothes from whatever cheap material they could find. If they heard of a bargain in a neighbouring area, they would ride the coal wagons to secure a nice piece of cloth. Lizzie was especially adept at sewing and made beautiful quilts that Rose and Maggie would hawk around the town to the better-off households.
They had avoided the Fawcetts in James Terrace, though, for Rose had no intention of being humiliated by them twice. It seemed a distant memory when she had been so smitten with love for William. A calf love, Rose now thought of it, a silly childish hankering after the impossible.
She had not seen him for weeks after that futile visit to his house. Either he was avoiding her or he took a long time recovering from his illness. If she had been able to write properly she would have sent him a note to tell him how sorry she was that she had caused him to catch a fever. But she determined not to give the Fawcetts the satisfaction of laughing at her lack of education.
So it had been September before she saw William again at St Bede’s and by that time apologies had seemed too late. She knew that his family must have been suffering great hardship after five months of no work, but pride made them keep their trials to themselves. William had looked painfully thin, his large eyes dark-ringed and his face pale as milk. He had nodded at Rose in a self-conscious way, but had not spoken and she had not gone out of her way to try to speak to him. It was as if their moment of friendship in the pigeon loft had never been and she was embarrassed now to think of it. William was now a brethren at St Bede’s, his spare time given over to the Church, and she assumed he had no interest in lasses.
Likewise, Rose had put thoughts of lads from her mind. She discouraged any interest from youths such as the McMullens, who could be playfully bawdy with her and her sisters given half the chance. All except the moody John, who shied away from girls and was teased by his brothers for his tongue-tied gruffness.
Now Michael McMullen was marrying Jenny Kennedy and there would be as big a celebration as their scant resources would allow. How her mother would have enjoyed a party! Rose felt tears spring to her eyes as she thought how swiftly and cruelly their mother had been taken from them the year before. Hunger and destitution had come again to the rows of Tyneside houses as a slump in trade had blighted the area. Hardly a ship was launched from Palmer’s and most of the workshops had been closed. A sinister silence had settled on the town. Then, as if that were not punishment enough, typhoid fever had spread through Jarrow like a fire, paralysing every family in fear.
Their hard-working mother, the rock of their family, had returned from visiting a sick friend and gone to bed. Within three days she was dead. Still numb with shock, they had made a pyre of her bedding and nightgown and set fire to them, while their father had crouched by the fence and wept like a child. They might have all starved if Rose had not rallied her sisters to take over the digging in the garden, while their father sank into deep mourning. She missed her mother deeply, and the fear that her life and those of her sisters might go the same way haunted those dark months. It had spurred her on to make a difficult decision.
‘Lizzie, hinny,’ she had taken her sister aside one day, ‘you’re the most domesticated of us lasses. You’ll have to gan into place. We need the money badly. Me and Maggie are stronger at the labouring and Maggie’s good with Da.’ She tried to cheer her sister. ‘You’ll be better off than stoppin’ here.’
Lizzie had nodded like a wise old woman and they had gone together to see Father O’Brien, who had taken over from old Father Boyle, to ask if he could put in a word for her. By the end of the year he had secured her a live-in position as general maid to the Flynns in South Shields, doing all their cooking and cleaning and back-breaking chores. Rose had never seen the cramped attic boxroom where Lizzie slept, but she knew her sister worked long hours and got little time to herself, for she rarely came home. Rose missed her lively sister and felt guilty for having sent her away, but knew they had no choice. Once a month they would see Lizzie for half a day. But today she had been given special permission to attend Michael McMullen’s wedding.
Rose stared critically at her reflection. At nineteen, she was large-featured with prominent cheekbones, a broad forehead and a full mouth. Her brown eyes were her best feature, framed by dark lashes and eyebrows. She patted her dark head of hair, catching a glimpse of calloused, dirt-ingrained fingers.
‘Eeh, look at these!’ she cried in dismay. ‘They’re workman’s hands.’
‘No one’ll be looking at your hands,’ Maggie assured her. ‘They’ll not see past your bonny face.’
Rose gave her sister a grateful hug. Maggie was full of kindness and optimism, always looking on the bright side. Rose wouldn’t have been able to keep going this past gruelling year if it hadn’t been for her sister’s humour and encouragement.
‘Here,’ Maggie smiled, ‘try on the hat.’
Rose took the round blue hat that they had snapped up for Lizzie in a second-hand clothes shop, and placed it on her head.
‘I think it’s too small for my big head,’ Rose giggled. ‘Anyway, it’s for our Lizzie.’
‘She won’t mind,’ Maggie insisted. ‘You never buy anything for yourself.’ Maggie readjusted the hat for her, securing it to the back of her head with a large pin. ‘That’s how you’re supposed
to wear them - tipped back - not on top like a bird’s nest!’
They both laughed. ‘Haway, let’s go and see if Da’s ready,’ Rose said, with a last swift glance in the mirror. ‘I can hear him swearing over his collar.’
The sisters bustled into the kitchen where their father sat cursing over the unaccustomed restrictions of his best shirt and antiquated breeches. But Rose was glad that he had agreed to come to the wedding at all, for he had hardly left home since their mother’s funeral over a year ago, shunning any company but theirs.
They fussed around him, helping him with his buttons and tie, until he was presentable. Finally, they set off together into the warm September sunshine, eager to meet Lizzie at the church.
‘Mrs McMullen says Michael’s going to be living with the Kennedys until they can afford to rent a place of their own,’ Maggie chatted. ‘Makes you wonder why they didn’t wait a bit longer.’
‘I don’t wonder,’ Rose answered. ‘It’ll not be half as crowded as the McMullens’ place.’
‘Aye,’ Maggie laughed, ‘that’s one more lodger Michael’s mam’ll be able to squeeze in after today.’
‘Can’t have the beds getting cold,’ Rose joked.
Maggie sang, ‘And the little one said, “Roll over, roll over!” And they all rolled over and one fell out. ..’
‘That’s enough!’ their father growled. ‘You’ll show a bit more respect for our own people. They’re fine stock, the McMullens, and they do what they can to survive - just like the rest of us. It was thanks to your dear mother’s good housekeeping that we never had to take in lodgers, not because we’re any better than the likes of the McMullens.’
‘And Rose too.’ Maggie spoke up. ‘We’ve got by because of her since Mam—’
Rose gave her a sharp jab in the ribs and a warning look. She did not want to spoil the day by stoking up one of their father’s black moods by mentioning their mother’s death. Her parents had argued about many things, but now her mother was gone, her father seemed lost and forlorn without her.
A hazy sky hung over St Bede’s that Saturday afternoon and, once in the town, a black dust soon settled on the men’s white collars and the women’s bonnets.
‘There she is!’ Maggie cried, and they rushed towards Lizzie, hugging her in delight.
‘Grand hat,’ Lizzie said to Rose.
Rose blushed. ‘It’s for you - you can have it after today.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Maggie said quickly, ‘it suits you. She can keep it, can’t she, our Lizzie?’
Lizzie gave the hat a brief longing glance then nodded her agreement. ‘Mrs Flynn gave me this old bonnet of hers - it’ll do for now.’
Rose felt a rush of affection for her younger sister. Impulsively she reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘No, after today this hat’s yours. I can wear Mrs Flynn’s one for church.’
They talked nonstop as they entered the church and filed into the pews behind their father. The church was stuffy, filling up with friends and relations. Half of Jarrow seemed to be crammed in to witness the wedding. As the McMullens clattered in, Rose caught a glance from John. He had grown a moustache since she had last seen him and strutted in defiantly. There seemed little trace of the gangling, awkward youth of five years ago. He was a man in his twenties, broadened and hardened by heavy physical work. No doubt he would soon be taking a wife, she thought with a quickening of her pulse that she could not understand. He was handsome enough, but he would be nothing but trouble to whoever took him on. She had heard about his fighting around the pubs of Jarrow, and how neither the priest nor his mother could get him or half his brothers to church. This was a rare occasion to see so many McMullens trouping into St Bede’s in an array of ill-fitting suits and caps.
Rose glanced down, feeling uncomfortable to be singled out by John’s harsh stare.
‘There’s Jobling’s ghost,’ Lizzie sniggered, and dug her in her ribs. Her sister had teased Rose for years about the incident down by the Slake. ‘Did you see the way he looked at you? Still sweet on you, Rose Ann!’
‘Ssh! No he’s not,’ she hissed. ‘We haven’t spoken in years. Any road, I don’t care for him.’
‘I sometimes see him,’ Lizzie whispered, ‘queuing at the dock gates for work when I’m taking the tram. Seems hard-working to me.’
‘Aye, and hard-drinking and hard-fighting, from what I hear,’ Rose snorted.
‘A lass needs a man who stands up for himself and his own kind,’ Lizzie teased.
‘I don’t need a man at all.’ Rose flushed.
With the arrival of the bride, they stopped their arguing over John. After the ceremony they were invited back to the Kennedys’ house. With a son at Palmer’s mill and another a joiner at the shipyard where trade was picking up again, the Kennedys were doing well enough to have left the old pit cottages for a house nearer the town centre. Rose knew Mrs Kennedy kept a strong grip on the purse strings and had been putting a little by for her daughter’s wedding day for years.
There were ham sandwiches and savoury pies in the small kitchen, a barrel of beer and flagons of whisky in the back yard, and the oilcloth rolled back in the front room for dancing. A fiddler had been hired to play all night or until the last guest went home. Rose and her sisters found the house bursting with people, all intent on this rare break from the daily grind of work or lack of work and scraping by.
They greeted the bride and groom and then squeezed their way through to the food, tackling it with enthusiasm. Later, when her father was steered into the back yard to sit on a crate and drink with old McMullen, Lizzie pulled her sisters into the dance room. They jostled into someone behind the door.
‘Sorry,’ Rose said, turning to see who it was. Standing, looking out of place in a smart suit and clutching a small glass of beer, was William Fawcett. Rose gasped in surprise and felt colour flood into her cheeks. She had not seen him arrive or noticed him at church.
William’s eyes widened too. ‘R-Rose,’ he stuttered.
‘What are you ...? I mean, I didn’t know you were ...’ she floundered.
He smiled almost apologetically. ‘I work with Danny Kennedy at the rolling mill,’ he explained. ‘Don’t know many people here - except you.’
Rose felt her insides lurch. She had not stood this close to William since the day of the hailstorm, all those summers ago. He was taller and leaner, his face almost gaunt. A wisp of a moustache shaded his upper lip, but his smile was still boyish and his blue eyes lively. She did not know what to say, aware that her sisters were watching them with interest.
After a pause he said, ‘I’m sorry about your mother passing on.’
‘Thank you,’ Rose murmured.
‘Is your father keeping well?’ he asked quietly.
‘He’s grown old all of a sudden,’ Rose found herself confiding. ‘The shock of losing Ma - and things haven’t been easy this past year. Mind, they haven’t been for most people.’
‘Rose has been grand at looking after us all,’ Maggie piped up. ‘We haven’t wanted for anything.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Lizzie, ‘and today she could do with a bit of fun - like a dance maybes, and a bit of attention from a lad.’
Rose went puce at her sisters’ interference, but William just smiled.
‘Better ask her quick then - before I miss me turn,’ he teased back. ‘Rose, will you dance with me?’
‘You don’t have to take any notice of them,’ Rose said, quite flustered.
‘I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the McConnell lasses,’ he grinned. ‘Come on, Rose, show me how to dance your Irish dances.’
Lizzie and Maggie pushed their sister forward and William took her hand. Rose felt light-headed at the contact, and soon they were turning and spinning around the cramped dance floor to the merry music of the fiddler.
; When the dance finished they were both out of breath and Rose felt her body glowing with heat.
‘Want to stand outside for a minute?’ William suggested. Rose nodded and followed, ignoring the grins on her sisters’ faces.
They walked to the end of the terrace and stood against the shaded gable, letting the cold brick cool their backs. Beyond the next terrace they could see the blackened ruin of St Paul’s, Bede’s monastery. A strong smell of sulphur wafted to them on a warm breeze that sent dust dancing in crazy circles around their feet.
‘How’s Florrie?’ Rose asked a little awkwardly.
‘Canny,’ said William. ‘Still at the haberdasher’s. She’s courting a lad from the bank.’ He slid her a look. ‘And you, Rose - are you courting yet?’
Her heart thumped at so direct a question. The boy of five years ago would never have been so forward, but then William was now a man.
‘No,’ Rose admitted while gazing intently at her feet.
‘I haven’t seen you at any of the church socials,’ he said.
She could tell he was watching her, but she dare not meet his gaze. Had he been looking out for her?
‘Don’t have time,’ Rose answered, ‘now I’m helping Da with the digging and that.’ She caught sight of her large, rough-skinned hands and quickly slid them behind her back. But William saw the self-conscious movement and reached out to take her hands. He held them gently in his own warm, work-hardened ones and rubbed his thumbs over her blistered palms. Rose caught her breath at the delicious tingling sensation this caused.
The Jarrow Lass Page 5
