Rose glanced up and saw her sister’s disapproving look.
‘You’re just like old Mrs Fawcett, taking to her bed and not caring an ounce for anyone but herself.’ With that, Maggie turned on her heels and left the room, slamming the ill-fitting door as she went.
Rose clutched herself and gasped for breath between sobs. She felt wretched at her sister’s condemnation. But to be compared with William’s selfish and spiteful mother! That was the most hurtful thing anyone had ever said to her in her life.
She could not lie down again. The calm dark world of isolation and grief into which she had crept had been invaded. Maggie’s cruel words had shaken her and set her emotions in turmoil once again. She would find no peace lying there and she would not be compared to the older Mrs Fawcett!
Rose dragged herself out of bed, dressed and emerged in silence from the bedroom. She could not bring herself to speak to her sister, but she helped prepare tea. The girls watched her warily, expectantly. Gathered mutely around the table, their anxious, subdued faces were almost too much for her to bear. Their need for her was so great that she feared she would never be able to satisfy their wants. They were a neverending burden, Rose shuddered.
The next day, Rose went back to the puddling mills and found the gruelling, physical work a blessed relief from her tortured thoughts.
The ordeals of Margaret’s birthday and Christmas passed without any celebration. There was scant money for presents, but Rose did not buy any anyway. She could not bear to walk past shops decorated with Christmas baubles, and hurried away from the sound of carollers singing in the streets. Maggie made an attempt to find a few treats for her nieces - tangerines and chestnuts and a length of rope for skipping. She fashioned a rag doll for Mary out of sacking, and made up a wardrobe of miniature clothes from an old cotton dress of Kate’s that was past mending. Rose showed no interest in trying to help her.
Danny grumbled that if Rose could not make any effort for her children then neither should they, but Maggie tried to keep the uneasy peace over the holiday period. It was a dismal time. Rose was either sullenly silent or snapped at the girls if they laughed or appeared too boisterous.
‘You’re in mourning for your sister,’ she scolded. ‘Have you forgotten her already?”
Kate was the only one who answered back, baffled by her mother’s reproach. ‘But, Mam, Father O’Brien says Margaret’s in heaven with the angels. And you said she’s with Da. So she’s happy, isn’t she? Why can’t we be, an’ all?’
Rose glared at her daughter, resenting her for making her feel ashamed of her outburst. Kate was right, and she should not take her misery out on the children, but she could not help herself.
‘Just show a bit of respect!’ Rose snapped back, and the meal was finished in strained silence.
Perversely, Rose found escape only in her drudgery at the puddling mill. She found no comfort in her daughters, who were a constant reminder of what she had lost. Elizabeth’s fair hair glimpsed from the back was just like Margaret’s; Kate’s quick laughter was an echo of William’s. At the mill she could work herself into a mindless exhausted state where the only pain that registered was the aching of her arms and the sweat prickling her body.
Lizzie’s marriage to the gardener, Peter, was delayed until after a respectable three months of mourning for Lizzie’s niece and was held at the end of February. Old McConnell was now too frail to walk down to church, so Danny gave away the bride instead. Rose tried to galvanise herself for the occasion, for she did not wish to cast a shadow over the day. But she was thankful when the couple chose to leave early to return to Ravensworth and the small cottage on the estate where they were starting married life.
Rose and Maggie tried to scrape together enough food for a wedding tea, but none of Peter’s family made the journey from County Durham so there was little to mark the occasion out as exceptional.
‘I just wanted to keep it quiet,’ Lizzie had assured them as they hurried away, leaving her sisters with the impression that she could not leave Simonside and its gloomy atmosphere quick enough.
Rose caught Maggie looking at her resentfully. ‘Don’t blame me,’ Rose said sharply. ‘I didn’t chase our Lizzie away.’
Maggie said nothing, just turned away wearily. Rose noticed suddenly how large she was, her womb swollen and heavy. It struck her how often Maggie had stopped that day to catch her breath and place her hands on her aching back. Her time must be nearly due.
‘Are you all right?’ Rose asked her quickly.
‘Aye,’ Maggie grunted, and busied herself clearing the table.
‘Sit yourself down,’ Rose ordered, ‘the lasses can do that.’
‘The lasses are out playing in the dark,’ Maggie said pointedly.
Rose realised that none of them was to be seen. Half the time she had no idea where they were or what they were doing; she had a pang of guilt. Maggie knew more about her daughters these days than she did.
‘I’ll call them in,’ Rose said quickly.
‘Rose,’ Maggie said, stopping her at the door. They looked warily at each other. ‘When me baby comes,’ Maggie faltered, ‘will you help deliver it?’
Rose’s heart lurched at the thought of having to bring another life into the world. It would be a painful reminder of those times of expectation and happiness that she had shared with William. But looking at Maggie’s nervous face she knew she must not let her down. Her sister had done so much for her and she deserved her own moment of triumph.
‘Of course I’ll help you,’ Rose agreed. For a brief moment they both smiled, then Rose dived out into the dark to call in her children.
Chapter 24
Less than a month later, before the end of March, Maggie went into labour. She had a difficult time, and Rose watched with alarm throughout the day and into the night, while trying to keep a fretful Danny and her inquisitive children at bay. She packed the girls off to bed, but Danny refused to go further than the fireside. Fearing she might have to send Danny for the doctor, Rose shut herself in the bedroom with Maggie and prayed. In the early hours of the morning, the baby finally came and put an end to the hours of exhaustion and worry.
At the moment of birth, Rose steeled herself to hold the slippery infant and hand her into Maggie’s arms.
‘It’s a lass,’ she croaked, her eyes filling with tears as she gave a trembling smile to her sister.
Maggie’s face shone with elation and joy. ‘Oh, Rose,’ she cried. ‘A lass of our very own! Gan and tell Danny quickly.’
Rose nodded and went wearily into the kitchen, touching Danny’s shoulder gently where he dozed in the fireside chair. He jerked awake at once.
‘You can go to her now,’ Rose smiled. ‘You’ve a baby daughter.’
Danny’s face broke into an excited grin. He leapt up and kissed Rose on the cheek. Rose tensed at the contact, the coarse words of John McMullen flooding into her tired mind. She knew her brother-in-law would never take advantage of her, that he had just enjoyed boasting about having two women in the house. But she no longer felt easy in his company. She pushed Danny away from her.
‘Save that for Maggie and the bairn,’ she told him stiffly, and turned away.
He almost ran from the room. Rose went and stood by the flickering fire and rested her head against the mantelpiece. She felt utterly drained and very old. The two years without William seemed like ten. She had been slaving in the puddling mill for almost a year and a half, yet she could hardly remember a time when she had not worked there. Her former life in Raglan Street seemed like someone else’s.
As she stared into the fire, trying to remember what it felt like to be happily exhausted, holding a new baby in her arms, she heard Danny’s excited voice through the open door.
‘Of course we can!’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s right bonny -just like her mam. No ot
her name would do.’
‘But what about ...?’ Maggie sounded uncertain.
‘I’ll not have that sister of yours ruling our lives any longer.’ Danny was adamant. ‘This is our home and our baby. We’ll call our lass what we like.’
Rose held herself stock-still, her heart beginning to hammer as she realised what they were talking about.
‘We’re calling her Margaret,’ Danny declared. ‘Margaret Kennedy.’
Rose felt thumped in the stomach at his words. They were going to call their girl Margaret. How could they do such a thing? It was all she could do to stop herself crying out in anguish. The baby had not reminded her of any of her daughters, but now suddenly hearing that precious name, Rose nearly crumpled to the hearth. How could she carry on living in this place where she would have to hear her dead daughter’s name mentioned every day? It would tear her apart!
Rose managed to make it to the door and slip outside into the cold damp darkness. She gulped for air, but the panic in her chest would not subside. She felt hemmed in by the blackness, the smell of dank earth at her feet, the brooding cottage at her back that felt more like prison now than home. But then it no longer was her home, she told herself brutally. Danny was right: this place belonged to him and Maggie. She and her children were only there on sufferance, at the mercy of their charity. Even her own father was a stranger there; he no longer knew or cared where he was. Besides, her sister and brother-in-law had every right to call their daughter Margaret if they chose. Hadn’t her own Margaret been called after Maggie too?
‘Oh, Margaret!’ she cried out in the dark. But not a soul heard her as her words were whipped away on a raw wind blowing off the river.
Far below, a lurid glow lit the town from the furnaces that never slept - the ceaseless workings of the mills. Despair and desolation swept over her at the realisation that this was her lot in life from now on. A life without purpose, world without end.
Long days of back-breaking work, then the toil uphill to be faced with the drudgery of making ends meet for her ever-needy daughters. Compounding this was the guilt of impoverishing Maggie further and the fear of Danny’s growing resentment. How long before he forced them to find somewhere else to live? She should have gone long ago, but could not face the thought of coping alone again, especially now without Margaret’s help.
Margaret. Above all, would be the pain of loving a new Margaret who wasn’t her Margaret - could never be hers.
Rose stumbled forward, not knowing where she was going, only that she had to get away. She went without a shawl to pull over her head in the wind, but she did not feel its bite as she fled down the muddy path and out of the gate. It banged behind her, but she did not look back. On she hurried, past the fallen-down pigeon loft where she had sheltered as a girl with the youthful William. A sob caught in her throat as she thought of it. But the pigeons were long gone and the fields were being swallowed up by grimy tenements advancing uphill from the overcrowded town. It no longer felt like the haven it had once been. There was no longer refuge on this hill, only relentless grind and pointless striving to get out of the mire.
The mud sucked at her boots and squelched as she pulled them out and ran on. Through empty streets she went, panting for lack of breath, but still she forced herself on. By the rank smell around her, Rose knew she had reached the Don. She followed it down, past the gaunt ghostly outline of the ruined monastery and the empty rectory where the Liddells had once lived. It had been abandoned by the clergy for a more manageable house in Croft Street. If only the kind couple had still been there to turn to in these desperate times!
Rose’s mind crowded with memories of William and the Liddells and past times of happiness. Out of breath as she was, she felt her steps now had some purpose, as if someone - some presence - was leading her on.
‘I’m coming,’ she gasped. ‘Wait, I’m coming!’
A few minutes later she was standing on the banks of Jarrow Slake. The tide was in. Its putrid molten blackness lapped at her feet, opening up before her like a deep, bottomless void. She could hear the creaking and groaning of seasoned timber as it bobbed on the high water. The sounds that had terrified her as a girl, that she believed were the cries of Jobling’s ghost, held no fear for her now. Jobling’s gibbet had gone sixty years ago and even if his ghost haunted this desolate place, she did not mind. Ghosts no longer frightened her. Rather, she longed for ghosts, for the restless souls of her beloved William and Margaret to come and claim her.
Rose knew that the only way she could gain peace of mind was to join them, to step into the Slake and cross to the far side, to the hereafter. Part of her knew that what she proposed to do - to take her own life - was a mortal sin. But what sort of life was it? What use was she to anyone? Her daughters would be better off without her. Maggie was a far better mother to them than she was. Rose had given her girls every last ounce of her strength and love, but now they had sucked her dry. She had nothing left to give them. She was as insubstantial as a husk blown away on the wind. The world would not miss her.
But William and Margaret did. They were impatient to be reunited. She could hear them moaning on the wind, calling to her in the mournful cry of the seagulls in the dawn. This was why Jobling’s spectre had called through the elements all these years. He was beckoning his widow to follow. He would not rest until they were together again.
Rose felt sudden urgency with the growing light. She must have been standing there for quite some time, because it had been dark as pitch when she had arrived. She was chilled to the bone in her thin dress. The Slake was turning grey and less mysterious, its enticing sigh lessening with the falling of the wind. It was time to go or her chance would disappear with the coming of the new day. Already, the vivid image of William and Margaret waiting for her was fading.
‘Wait for me!’ Rose cried.
She stepped off the bank and tumbled forward into the filthy frothing water. Her skirts floated up around her for a moment, then turned heavy and began to drag her down. She screamed at the impact of the icy river around her legs and thighs. Then the breath froze in her chest and she could not breathe or cry out. Fear gripped her. She was going to drown in this foul water, all alone. There was no William there waiting for her, she realised in panic. She was taking her own life and she’d go to Hell for doing so. Rose would be divided from William for the rest of eternity!
As she went down, the water enclosing her waist and breasts, she found her voice and screamed for help. Her mouth filled with stinking water. She spluttered and flung her arms above her head, trying to cling on to one of the floating planks.
There was a splash further up the bank, but Rose could not turn her head to see if it was human or animal. She went under again. Her mind filled with thoughts of her daughters waking and finding her gone, their sleepy faces turning to panic. She didn’t want to die! Too late she realised how much she wanted to live, wanted to hold her children in her arms once more. What madness had tricked her into taking such a drastic step? Her foolish, fanciful obsession with Jobling’s ghost had finally been her undoing. The long-ago tragedy was claiming another life.
Suddenly someone gripped her by the hair and pain shot through her scalp. Then they had hold of her arm. She was yanked towards the bank, as strong arms went around her chest and hung on to her.
Her rescuer hauled her on to the slimy bank and rolled her, spluttering, on to her side. She retched and spat out the foul water, her chest heaving in relief. It was several moments before she had the breath to look up. A dark figure leaned over her, panting with the exertion. His sour breath smelt of whisky.
‘You daft bitch!’ he cried. ‘What you doing down here—’ He broke off as recognition dawned on them both. ‘Rose!’
Through her strands of wet hair she stared back at the astonished face of John McMullen.
Chapter 25
For a l
ong moment they simply stared at each other. How was it that the treacherous Slake had thrown them together once more? Rose had felt drawn to its brooding, malign presence, its promise of oblivion. She had yearned for its nothingness, for the pain inside to stop.
Yet at the point of drowning, she had been seized by a desperate desire to cling on to life. She wanted to see her daughters again, to smell the earth of Simonside, to see the sun set and the moon rise. She longed for the comfort of human touch. All this she knew in a few short seconds of struggle in the evil Slake.
How strange that she should have been rescued by John McMullen, a man she half feared and had always connected with Jarrow Slake since the day he had tried to frighten her with Jobling’s ghost. He seemed to embody its dangerous depths, its hypnotic pull. He gazed at her now with his fierce look, and she braced herself for some brutal remark about throwing her back in the water now he could see who it was.
So Rose spoke first. ‘I slipped,’ she panted.
He snorted in disbelief. ‘You were standing there for ages, then you jumped.’
‘You were watching me?’ Rose exclaimed.
‘I could see you as I came down the bank,’ John mumbled.
‘What you doing out here at this time in the mornin’?’ Rose asked, noticing his dishevelled, unshaven appearance.
‘I was ganin’ to ask you the same,’ John grunted.
He was not going to tell her that he had got so drunk the night before that he had lost his way home and stumbled into the monastery ruins, finally finding shelter in an outhouse of the old rectory under a pile of sacking. Waking stiff and cold, he had wended his way down the Don, cursing the thudding in his head until he caught sight of the lonely figure standing by the Slake. It seemed to mirror his own feeling of isolation, of being cut off from the people around him, however crowded his surroundings.
The Jarrow Lass Page 22
